


Fundamental Principles

by manic_intent



Series: Fundamental Principles [1]
Category: Man of Steel (2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And Dru-Zod isn't sure if Jor-El is capable of being interested in things other than tech, Arranged Marriage, I have no excuses for this fic either, In a postgender/postsexual/postbirth society pair-bonding is decided logically, In which Jor-El isn't sure if Dru-Zod is capable of being interested in things other than Grenades, M/M, Space Husbands, That Arranged Marriage AU... ... yes, anyway, at least for the Pure Lines, until now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-13
Updated: 2013-07-26
Packaged: 2017-12-19 07:51:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 50,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/881311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jor-El first learns of Dru-Zod's existence on the eighth cycle of his existence, and quite by chance. He had been on his way to the eastern cryst terrace of the El estates, to watch sundown with his twin, and had cut past the sunward planarform on a whim. His parents were leaning by the balustrade at the furthest swing of the curved planarform, and their voices barely carried over the evening wind. </p><p>"... he is hardly yet of age, Seyg," his mother looks agitated, and out of concern, Jor-El hesitates at the archway, just out of sight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuse for this story. 
> 
> Brief research indicates that Jor-El's dad had three kids, what. Also, for the sake of convenience, I'm going with Seyg-El as the name of Jor-El's dad, rather than the somewhat more confusing Jor-El I. I'm also going to change comic!canon a little bit with regards to female naming convention, because I feel that in a highly advanced, post-sexuality society there's probably not any difference between male and female naming conventions. Everyone gets a full surname, no patronymic naming conventions just for girls. 
> 
> Also, as before, I should state first off that I haven't read Superman comics, nor will I get to it in the near future, because my to-read list is overburdened right now. Just, um, pretend that this is movieverse, everything can be made up, etc. :) 
> 
> I'm not sure what everyone's comic!ages are, but Michael Shannon is actually nearly 10 years younger than Russell Crowe, and in the comics Dru-Zod seems to be visibly younger than Jor-El. For the purposes of this fic, however, Dru-Zod is slightly older than Jor-El.

I.

Jor-El first learns of Dru-Zod's existence on the eighth cycle of his existence, and quite by chance. He had been on his way to the eastern cryst terrace of the El estates, to watch sundown with his twin, and had cut past the sunward planarform on a whim. His parents were leaning by the balustrade at the furthest swing of the curved planarform, and their voices barely carried over the evening wind.

"... he is hardly yet of age, Seyg," his mother looks agitated, and out of concern, Jor-El hesitates at the archway, just out of sight. 

His father, Seyg-El, is fresh from the Council's ex cathedra, still resplendently dressed in his cetera robes, the parte vambraces drawn tight over his wrists, the gleaming extant arcs of office latched to his shoulders. His expression is uncommonly stern. "He is just of age, Nimda." 

"Barely," Nimda An-Dor wrings her delicate wrists, " _Barely_ of age, Seyg, and you would trade him to Ter? Ter- _Zod_? Does this war mean so much to you?"

" _Peace_ is what I seek," Seyg-El corrects Nimda An-Dor reproachfully. "Not war. That is the point of the bargain. Nimda-"

Unimpressed, his mother's lips compress into a tight line. "And you thought to simply _inform_ me of this? Does my opinion matter so little?"

"What choice do I have? Solton's secession came as an utter surprise to the Council. Their vote currently swings in favour of a swift, military response. _Military_ , Nimda! And Solton a trader-state! There'll be blood on the streets. We must try to negotiate first, and for that, I need votes. House Zod has closer ties to the other Pure Lines than we do. If all of the Pure Lines unite behind me on this issue, we can swing the vote in my favour."

"'Can'," Nimda An-Dor repeats bitterly. "For a possibility, for a war that may come regardless, you will trade our eldest child to a House of butchers."

Jor-El stiffens, but Seyg-El's tone turns icy. "And I should think that you would have paid less heed to rumours and slanders, Nimda. Ter-Zod and his House may traditionally hail from the Military Guild, but they are not killers."

"No? What about that Yangton campaign-"

"I will hear no more of this," Seyg-El snaps, and Nimda An-Dor flinches, just as Jor-El clenches his hands tight at the sudden, whip-hard tone to his father's usually amiable voice. "Nimda... oh my love..." he sighs, his tone gentling, "It is precisely to prevent another Yangton that we must do this." 

"I do not understand," Nimda An-Dor murmurs, subdued. "Why would he ask for one of our children? Why not our wealth? Or our interests in the Ryaton peninsula? Are they even genetically compatible? Jor-El and, and-"

"Dru-Zod," Seyg-El supplies, and Jor-El quietly commits the name to memory. _Dru-Zod_. "They are compatible, but not optimally. Not like that daughter of the House of Lor-Van whom we were originally considering."

 _Lara_? Jor-El thinks, and frowns. 

"Lara Lor-Van is such a sweet child," Nimda An-Dor sighs. "A far better match for our Jor." 

"Perhaps. Nimda, you know that the promissory bond is not permanent." Seyg-El hesitates for a long moment before he continues. "It is only finalised upon the age of majority." 

"But it is traditionally finalised," Nimda An-Dor points out slowly, and shakes her head. "You would make a false bargain?"

"Not I," Seyg-El retorts, as he clasps Nimda An-Dor's sleeves gently. "There are other variables. We are trading a possibility for a possibility."

Jor-El finds that he can bear to hear no more: quietly, he steals away, hurrying towards the terrace, blindly finding his way around the wide corridors and archways, dodging servobots and retainers, until he finally stumbles out onto the opalescent fan of acothyst crystal. Nim-El is already waiting impatiently on a bench, scuffing his feet against the ground; he jerks up when he sees Jor-El approach.

"You're late," he begins, then with a twin's keen intuition, adds, cautiously, "What happened?"

Jor-El settles next to his twin brother with a low breath, and finds himself relating, in stumbling terms, exactly what he had overheard. Nim-El's eyes grow wider and wider, until he finally bursts out, "But that's _unfair!_ "

"Only-"

"Promissory bonds are usually decided when we are _nine_ cycles old, at the _earliest_ ," Nim-El scrunches up his face into a scowl, "And they are decided based on genetic compatibility _and_ character compatibility. We have never met this Dru-Zod in our lives!"

"We've met Lara," Jor-El notes, a little dryly, and Nim-El grimaces.

"She's strange."

"I like her," Jor-El admits, with a light shrug. Lara Lor-Van had been intelligent, and had a curious and receptive mind; she had also responded to Nim-El's pranks with patience and grace. Their coincidental encounters during social functions now seemed somewhat less coincidental, though. "I wonder who they were thinking of for you?"

Nim-El's grimace deepens. "I do not know and I do not want to know. If you like Lara then-"

"Promissory bonds are decided by our elders for a reason," Jor-El cuts in. "Using reason and circumstance."

"Using proper genecodes and persograph predictions," Nim-El corrects, glowering out over the vast stretch of Krypton's spires and domes. "What is the point of belonging to the most powerful House in Krypton, if we cannot pair-bond with only the most suitable?" When Jor-El says nothing, Nim-El sighs. "All right. The tesseglyph console on the aft fourth level counselroom. We'll use that."

"Use that to what?"

Nim-El eyes him with some surprise. "Why, to find out more about this Dru-Zod, of course. And his House. And whatever the 'Yangton Campaign' is."

"He's very likely my age, and I'll prefer to go into a meeting without any preconceptions." 

Nim-El rolls his eyes. "As you like, but _I_ wish to know more about the person whom my _twin brother_ is about to be mated to."

"A promissory bond isn't a full companion bond," Jor-El points out. Now that the shock has worn off, he supposes that he's more curious rather than outraged. The future with regards to his inevitable, arranged companion bond has always been opaque, and of less real interest to him than the infogrid and its inexhaustible wealth of knowledge; he had always assumed that his parents would pick someone for him whom would be compatible genetically and mentally, and had never paid it the least attention. 

"You are taking this well," Nim-El notes suspiciously. "Am I the only one with a flux of sanity between us?"

"Perhaps," Jor-El flashes his brother a faint grin. "Certainly you will be unable to decrypt the security grids in the tesseglyph console without me."

Nim-El sulks, threatens, cajoles, and finally tries to ignore Jor-El, which suits him fine, as he watches the red sun sink, bloated and spitting flares, over the distant horizon of the Dreaming City. Solar flares, he thinks, and is soon lost in an eidetic recall of antimatter principles; by the time a retainer shoos them indoors for supper, the matter of his promissory bond has long been swept low in the scales of his current curiosities.

II.

Rather to Jor-El's surprise (and Nim-El's obvious dismay), Seyg-El ushers Jor-El into a jumpship after only two klicks have passed. Young Kryptonians, particularly those of the higher tier Houses, let alone any scions of the Pure Lines, never have cause to leave their estates until they enrol in the Guild Academies: it's obvious where they're headed, if only because his mother has fussed over him for an hour while he was being dressed in his best clothes. It's an odd gesture: in theory, as the pre-eminent House in Krypton, any potential bondmates should be visiting the El estates, not the other way round, but Jor-El supposes wryly that there's nothing really _normal_ about this particular arrangement.

Nim-El hugs him fiercely before he gets into the jumpship, clearly anxious, but Jor-El merely squeezes his hand, with a faint and hopefully reassuring smile. He's excited, he has to admit. This is his first time out of the El estates, his first time out into the Dreaming City, the capital metropolis of Krypton. It's going to be _great_.

The ceremonial robes are stiff and annoying, but Jor-El is fascinated by the view from the jumpship ports, avidly scanning the plunging drops between the graceful spires that they dodge around, high above av-traffic at Rao-height, reserved for use by the Pure Lines. He can't see the ground from here; as far as he can tell, the towers and spires sink into a gray abyss, and he wonders briefly if conventional rumour reads true, that the Dreaming City yet has its slums and its disadvantaged. He reserves the idea for further research as the jumpship banks over a set of estates built in severe, angular lines, with none of the delicate architectural whimsies or aesthetic curves of the El estates; the Zod estates look unabashedly military, with defensive external posts overlooking a monolithic inner obelisk, unlovely and unwelcoming, with narrow juts of windows rather than the beautiful long galleys that Jor-El is used to. 

It looks, rather uncomfortably, like a barracks or a prison, and they land on a narrow raised strip, that overlooks an oddly natural-looking series of juts into the obelisk, as though formed of the original rock of the tower. The wind fans up a briefly sharp, acrid scent even as Jor-El belatedly hears the harsh cries and guttural growls from below them, from what seems to be a small colony of large beasts. He tries to look over the edge, but his father's hand clamps tight on his shoulder, and obediently, he follows him down the landing strip and into a large reception chamber, rectangular, with opaque ports lining the walls. 

A broad-shouldered, tall Kryptonian stands with military, ramrod poise at the end of the chamber, dressed pointedly in armour, no ceremonial robes, and beside him is a boy a few inches taller than Jor-El. Both Kryptonians have angular, unforgiving faces, and although a child's softer features has lent some vulnerability to the boy, his eyes are just as flatly neutral as he stands at parade rest. Jor-El stares, unabashedly, even when his father comes to a halt with a forced smile and polite pleasantries. 

"This is your firstborn son? Jor-El?" Ter-Zod asks, after the pleasantries trail to a halt. His tone is just as neutral as his eyes, as though he's simply discussing the price of a piece of furniture, and Jor-El tries not to stiffen. 

"Yes. I understand that Dru-Zod is three cycles older." Seyg-El grimaces slightly. "I do confess it remains a surprise to me that he hasn't yet been matched."

"House Zod sees no real rush to follow convention," Ter-Zod shoots Jor-El a cursory glance, "Save where it retains a benefit. Dru, take Jor-El around the estates. I have business to discuss with Councillor El."

His father looks briefly indecisive, and on impulse, Jor-El makes the decision for him, trotting up to Dru-Zod with what he hopes is a friendly smile. Dru-Zod merely stares at him for a moment before setting off on a loping stride towards one of the hewn exits to the reception chamber, and they get about partway down the wide, spiralling stairs by the time Jor-El manages to find his tongue. 

"I am pleased to meet you," he offers politely. 

"No, you are not," Dru-Zod retorts. There's no malice there, or resentment, only a matter-of-fact sort of disinterest. 

"Where are we going?"

"Walking," Dru-Zod offers, just as curtly, and Jor-El stifles the faint touch of irritation within him as he hurries to keep up with the older boy.

"What are those creatures that live in the eyries under the landing strip?"

"Hybrid snagriffs."

"Really," Jor-El notes, intrigued, "Snagriffs cannot be tamed."

This gets him an unimpressed, over-the-shoulder glance. "That is why we have _hybrids_."

"Do you ride them?"

"Yes."

"Can I see?"

"No." 

This time, it takes a little more effort to bite down on a sigh. "I am sorry if you did not want to be pair-bonded to me-"

"I have no opinion on the matter." 

Once out of the stairs, Dru-Zod's stride lengthens again, and Jor-El has to almost skip along to keep up. The corridors are narrow, as they speed past obs decks and large, oddly empty rooms, then widen out when they slope past a cache of guards at attention. The residential section of the Zod estates is almost indistinguishable from the rest of it, just as spartan, the walls ranging from a slate gray to a stormcloud blue, some sort of persteel blend, Jor-El thinks, as he runs his fingers briefly against it. Built like a bunker, or a starship's hull. Defensive construction, pre-Datum, perhaps, maybe from the Expansionist Age. He's so curious that he nearly comes to a stop, but Dru-Zod pointedly clears his throat, and Jor-El hurries back over to his heels.

They eventually arrive at another unlovely, cubical room, this one with a tesseglyph console and a infogrid array, and Dru-Zod picks up a small infogrid slate from a workbench beside the console and hands it to him. "Sit there and be quiet," he instructs him, gesturing at a desk and a set of chairs set at the other corner of the cubical room.

"Are we not touring your estates?"

"I have term examinations on the morrow. Can you be quiet?"

"What subject?" Jor-El asks, curious, "The Military Guild has theoretical examinations?"

"All the Guilds do, child." 

"I happen to be only three cycles younger than you," Jor-El points out, irked at Dru-Zod's tone, though he keeps his tone mild, "Soon I will also be enrolling in a Guild Academy." 

Dru-Zod is already ignoring him, however, the array springing to life under his fingertips as he studies scrolling lines of text, and a little irritably, Jor-El settles over at the desk as he's told. The infogrid slate prompts him for a login, but he senses that Dru-Zod's very unlikely to allow him anything more than guest access, so he quietly inputs a few lines of code into the slate's subsec pathways and lets his program clear him for full access. 

The older boy is studying historical strategy, Jor-El realizes, when he patches in to Dru-Zod's array. He speed reads through the infotext that Dru-Zod is perusing, then checks up on the rec links on the article. Philosophically speaking, the text is nominally interesting and the opinion commentaries are slightly better, although Jor-El would prefer to read about even basic photon transfer theory at any given day, and he's considering trying to access the Science Council's datagrid files on antimatter when Dru-Zod says, over his shoulder, "How did you get access to that?"

Jor-El flinches: he hadn't heard Dru-Zod's approach. "Um, you should have tri-locked the subsec bypass."

Dru-Zod frowns at him, as though Jor-El is speaking gibberish, but he doesn't reach over for the slate. "Good reading?" he drawls, patronisingly, and this time, Jor-El grits his teeth.

He's partway through offering his tentative opinion on the modern viability of Fax-Ul's _Twelve Stratagems_ when he realizes that Dru-Zod hasn't spoken a word since he had started - in fact, his expression seems to be carefully blank. It's unsettling enough that Jor-El falters to a stop, and sits watching him uncomfortably until Dru-Zod seems to stir.

"Have you read that text before?"

"No," Jor-El murmurs, and tries not to squirm.

"You have an interest in military strategy?"

"Not particularly," Jor-El admits, and adds hastily, when Dru-Zod starts to frown, "But I am sure that it is very interesting."

"If you would speak at all," Dru-Zod narrows his eyes, "Speak your mind, and not what you think that I wish to hear. Otherwise, you will only be wasting your time, _and_ mine." 

"I was going to access an antimatter file," Jor-El confesses, stung, "But you startled me."

"Antimatter?"

"Um, in the Science Council's datagrid."

Dru-Zod snorts. "That is your interest?"

"Well, yes," Jor-El notes, a little puzzled. "Technology and science." What else was purer an area of knowledge than the very code of the universe itself?

"A waste," Dru-Zod's opinion is curt, as he ambles back to his seat and his console. 

Jor-El swallows his annoyance and hurt by reminding himself that his father needs this alliance, and settles for accessing the estate's security feeds. He's studying a projection of the hybrid snagriff eyries and their nesting rituals when Dru-Zod's voice cuts back in. "Stop that."

"You refused to take me to see them," Jor-El points out reasonably, "So this is the next best thing."

"They are fey beasts at the best of times, and will bite you if they sense that you are uninitiated to their ways."

Snagriff teeth and fangs could easily slice through persteel and bioengineered skin. However, the four-winged, vaguely insectoid hybrids are so far the only interesting thing that Jor-El has seen in the estates, and he tries a winning smile. "But you'll be there. You could teach me."

Dru-Zod lets out an exasperated sound, closing his eyes briefly. "When I have time," he grits out finally, a little to Jor-El's surprise. "But it will be no fault of mine if you do get bitten."

"All right," Jor-El tries not to grin, but it's difficult in the face of victory, however minor. "I'll be quiet. I'm sorry. Good luck on your studies."

Dru-Zod merely snorts, and they sit in silence as he turns back to his console. It's not a bad sort of silence, Jor-El thinks; it's not an empty one, after all. They're both learning something, in the same room. It's not a silence that he's used to: Nim-El is habitually restless, and his other, younger brother, Zor-El, is still a toddler, and toddlers do not tend towards silence. He's never alone in the El estates, if only also because of the constant, almost unobtrusive presence of the retainers. This is a little peaceful.

But that's what's missing from the Zod estates, he realizes. Retainers. He's seen guards, but no servants: not even very many bots. 

Curious, he hacks into the Zod estate mainframe - its measures aren't anywhere near as complex as those of his father's making at home, and is working his way patiently through the second tier security measures when Dru-Zod says mildly, over his shoulder, "Are you here as a spy, or a friend, boy?"

Jor-El nearly falls off his chair, though he does stifle a squeak. "How do you manage to walk so quietly?"

"Practice." Dru-Zod reaches over, and with a few quick commands, closes the prompt windows. "Answer the question." 

"A friend, I hope," Jor-El mutters, flushed with embarrassment and staring at his hands. "I was just wondering why your House seems to have few retainers."

"You could have asked."

"I promised to be quiet."

A sharp curve twitches at Dru-Zod's mouth: it's not quite a smile. "That you did. We have few servants because they are a waste of resources. Satisfied?"

Jor-El eyes Dru-Zod with some surprise. He had always assumed that all of the other Pure Lines were as wealthy as House El. Perhaps there's a reason why the walls of the Zod estates are so bare of artifice and decoration. "You have many guards."

"Because the Military Guild does not pay as well as the other Guilds, particularly to those of lower Houses, and particularly to those with no House at all," Dru-Zod shrugs. "So we assist."

"By building a private army?"

"That is an unforgiving way of interpreting the arrangement." Dru-Zod drawls. "Besides, it is hardly a secret."

His mother's loathing suddenly seems less irrational. Nimda An-Dor has always been a staunch pacifist: a byproduct, perhaps, of her work in the Medical Guild. Jor-El considers her views against Dru-Zod's words, and isn't sure of the merits of either. He doesn't have, he concludes, nearly enough data to come to an opinion. 

"Can you teach me how to walk quietly?"

"It depends. Can I teach you how to sit _quietly_ for a few hours without breaching the privacy of my House?"

"Deal," Jor-El decides, "But I also get to see the snagriffs."

Dru-Zod's expression doesn't change, but there's a brief spark of amusement in his eyes as he looks back over to the console. "Very well."

The hours pass surprisingly quickly, and Jor-El looks up when the tesseglyph console beeps. Dru-Zod reads the message and slips off his chair, motioning for him to follow, and Jor-El politely places the infogrid slate back on the workbench on his way out. He's a little tired by the time they ascend back up to the reception chamber, but he manages not to yawn; his father and Ter-Zod are already there, speaking in low voices. They glance up when Dru-Zod walks up to them, and Seyg-El smiles tiredly at Jor-El.

"Did you have a good time?" he asks absently, clearly not expecting any real answer. Jor-El glances at Dru-Zod, but the older boy looks impassive again, standing back at parade-rest beside his father. 

"I did," Jor-El says finally, and he's a little surprised to find that he isn't lying. "I had good company," he adds, and this one is a bit of an embellishment - Dru-Zod blinks, even as Ter-Zod arches an eyebrow minutely. It's not entirely untrue, though. Dru-Zod's brutal disregard of social niceties is unusual, and Jor-El has always been intrigued by unusual things.

"Did you now," Seyg-El also looks briefly surprised before his expression smooths, and he offers Ter-Zod a few terse farewells before they head to their jumpship.

"Did you get what you wanted, Father?" Jor-El asks mildly, on their way home, and Seyg-El flinches a little; he even looks briefly guilty as he stares at his hands. 

"Yes. I think so."

"Good." Jor-El decides solemnly. "When are we coming back to visit?" Maybe Dru-Zod would have time to show him the snagriffs then.

"Thankfully," Seyg-El seems to misinterpret his sentiment, patting Jor-El's shoulder comfortingly, "That will not be necessary." 

"Oh." Jor-El notes, surprised. 

"Your pair-bond is not... a conventional one, at least, not for a scion of our House. Our House has been - usually - blessed with enough wealth and influence to allow our children to be pair-bonded only to the most suited," Seyg-El says heavily, "But I trust that you will understand that it is necessary. Still, Ter-Zod has agreed to spare you the usual ceremonial rituals, at least until you are older. You will not need to meet Dru-Zod in any social context as yet, not for a while." 

That's disappointing, Jor-El thinks, but he says nothing: his father looks tense and tired enough as it is. He turns back to look through one of the ports to the receding, forbidding obelisk of the Zod estates, and while he doesn't as yet know it, it will be many cycles yet until he steps foot in it again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Months after Nim and Jor celebrate their twelfth birthdays, they've still yet to receive a Ministry assignation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short timeskip...

III.

The tame prism-bird mother studies Jor-El and Nim-El suspiciously with its multifaceted eyes, shaking out its wings as Lara Lor-Van whistles at it. At the whistle, the bird settles back onto the nest with a snap of its beak, occasionally peeking under its smoky gray plumage to check on its eggs.

The aviary is kept unseasonably warm, and although it is large for a single prism-bird family, it's crowded with all three of them wedged within it.

"Anytime now," Lara whispers to them, her thick dark hair tied at the nape of her neck, grinning in her borrowed breeches and jacket. No skirts for Lara in the Botanical Dome, no impractical shoes; she wears knee-high boots, already caked in mud, and a heavy pouch at her hip filled with herbs, seeds and other animal treats. 

Jor-El grins back, but Nim-El sighs, and rolls his eyes when Jor-El elbows him pointedly in the ribs. "How long might it be?" 

"Could be anytime between now and three hours. The eggs have come a-colour," Lara smirks when Nim-El lets out a groan. "Patience, Nim-El! How will you build cities without patience?"

"With bots," Nim-El says sourly. "And my first project when I turn Master at the Guild of Architects will be to redesign this blasted place. Make the cages bigger, for a start. Maybe a live feed, so that we don't have to stand about in this _fragrant_ muck staring at a _bird_ for _hours_."

"You did not have to come," Jor-El points out mildly.

Nim-El rolls his eyes. " _Someone_ said that there would be thought beasts."

"And there were."

"It was a thought beast _skeleton_ , Jor." 

"Did I not mention that?"

Lara laughs as Nim-El shoves Jor-El, though the sudden movement makes the prism-bird chirp in alarm. "No, really, the two of you don't have to be here with me. I'm only an apprentice zoologist, but I can keep tabs on LeeLee here just fine by myself."

"It's not as though we have anywhere else to be," Nim-El concedes. "You've gotten your posting, we haven't."

"It's not unusual for it to be late," Lara lifts a shoulder into a shrug, "Besides, I bet it's simply been delayed because your mother is planning on throwing a great big surprise party in celebration, and hasn't yet had time to finish organising it. Or at least," she adds dryly, "That's my explanation for the reason why I haven't yet received an invite."

"Subtle, very subtle," Jor-El notes, amused. Nimda An-Dor dotes on her children: what Lara suggests is quite possible, even though their twelfth-cycle birthdays have been only two months past. "But then it won't be a surprise."

"There's hardly going to be anything surprising about it," Lara turns her gaze back to the prism-bird, tapping in a few notes into her compact infogrid slate. "Nim-El, House of El, Guild of Architects - oh, let me guess, Urban Terraforming. Jor-El, House of El, Science Guild - hmm, what could it possibly be? Experimental Physics?"

"You really should watch that prescience of yours," Jor-El drawls, with mock sadness.

"It is so _very_ rude," Nim-El agrees, matching his brother's dour tone. 

"Just so that the both of you understand, if there _is_ a party, and I wasn't invited, we will no longer be on speaking terms." 

"Rao's breath, the gauntlet is thrown," Jor-El arches his eyebrows. 

"We cower in fear," Nim-El adds blandly.

"So you should," Lara agrees loftily, and they're still bickering quietly between themselves when the prism-bird clacks its beak, self-importantly, and lurches to its feet. Under its downy belly, the first iridescent, pearly egg has begun to crack.

Even Nim-El tries to squeeze closer, entranced, but Lara shoos them as close to the exit of the aviary as they can fit. One by one, each naked little chick pecks its way out to a new life, reborn from its shelled womb to the artificial warmth of the fecund aviary, blind, ugly, yellow-beaked, shrilling and squirming. Four out of five of the eggs hatch over the next hour, as Lara makes furious notes, but the fifth remains inert, and after a while, the mother taps lightly at the shell, tilts its head, then, to Jor-El's surprise, tips the egg out of the nest.

"Wait!" Nim-El is the one who jerks forward, but the egg smashes on the peat ground under the nest. Jor-El wrinkles his nose: he can smell the stink of the rotted egg from here, see the tiny wrinkled fetus that never got as far as its siblings, and he shudders, even as Lara bends to take a photoread of the dead egg.

"Four out of five, not bad," Lara notes, getting back to her feet. She arches an eyebrow as she glances at them; at the nest, the mother prism-bird is regurgitating its feed of worms and seed for the first chick. It's an oddly grisly, organic thing to watch.

"It just tipped out the last one," Nim-El is still staring at the smashed egg. "Just like that."

"It was not going to hatch," Lara shrugs. "That is the way of things. Some other birds eat their unhatched eggs." 

"Eat their own _eggs_?" Nim-El repeats, looking horrified, and Jor-El edges carefully over to Lara, bending to examine the broken egg. There's a faint, hairline crack on the shell that probably wasn't caused by impact: the shell had been the problem, then. 

"Nature," Lara offers by way of response, her smile going sharp with mischief. "You should see the entroshrews. They eat their young if they think that you're watching them too closely. _Live_." 

Nim-El grimaces, turns a little green, and excuses himself, stepping out of the aviary and hurrying down the steelglass corridor adjoining the aviary bubbles towards the antegarden, seeking fresher air. Jor-El chuckles, shaking his head. 

"That was cruel."

"Also true."

"Still cruel." Jor-El straightens up. The chicks are sated now, cheeping gently as their mother resettles proudly over them, plumping her feathers. "How is the Guild treating you?"

"It's not entirely what I wanted, but it has its merits," Lara concedes, as she finishes off her infogrid report and uploads it.

"I am sorry to hear that. I know that you wished to study pre-evolutionary archaeology."

Lara's lips quirk slightly, wry. "I am a second daughter of a second-tier house, Jor. I know my place." 

Uncomfortably, he chews at the inside of his mouth, and exhales, finally. "Perhaps if you were matched to-"

"No, no," she cuts in, touching his arm lightly. "Jor, what would be the point of that? I have no interest in having my life beholden to another, just for this. If this is the role that the Ministry has seen fit to set for me, then so be it. I _am_ suited to it." 

"You would not wish for things to be different?" 

She shrugs. "What would the point be? Years of genetic engineering have been factored into our make-up. We are what we are. There's no changing it."

Jor-El sighs, about to object, when the subdermal commpiece in his ear alerts him to an incoming connect request from Nim-El. "Nim?"

"Jor, come to the antegarden," Nim-El instructs, tense. "There's someone from the Ministry here to see us."

IV.

The _Military Guild_. Cadet. Jor-El, House of El, Twelfth Cycle Kryptonian, Dreaming City.

Jor-El turns the guildcrest slate over in his hands, still feeling numb. He's not the smallest child in the lineup in the stark courtyard, but it's a close thing - the smallest child in question is a female Kryptonian, her lips set in a flat line, her eyes sharp and assessing as she looks around at the rest if the fresh Cycle-One cadets. It takes Jor-El a moment to recognise the crest on her persteel bodysuit - House Ul. He sidles over to her, on impulse, and she stares at him the moment he gets close.

"Rao's blessing," Jor-El greets her formally, after the custom of his House. "I am-"

"Jor-El. So I heard." The girl looks him over briskly. "Faora-Ul."

"So you heard?" Jor-El repeats, a little blankly, then he realizes belatedly that the other Cadets are either watching him openly, or out of the corners of their eyes. He feels self-conscious, all of a sudden, and tries not to visibly stiffen.

"It was all over the infogrid this morning," Faora-Ul retorted shortly. "My parents were curious. No scion of the House of El has ever been assigned to the Military Guild."

"I know that," Jor-El sighs, still depressed about it all. "I am sure that there was some sort of mistake." 

He isn't so sure about that any longer, though. Outraged as his brother and Lara had been, once they were home, it was obvious enough from his mother's tense unhappiness and his father's quiet, almost chilly reserve that however this… this travesty had happened, it had been - unbelievably - out of House El's hands. 

"You do seem soft," Faora-Ul replies curtly, and beside her, there's a ripple of a murmur, some of it outraged. House Ul is a Pure Line House, but it's not nearly at the same status as El. Despite his sheer unhappiness and bewilderment at his situation, Jor-El manages a wry smile. 

"Yes, well, I spent my formative years learning about technology, not weapons."

"Then you will have some catching up to do," Faora-Ul snaps her gaze away, up to the huge black basalite doors. The great asphen chains creak and groan as they pull against their ancient rings, set into the hypersmoothed surfaces of the doors; they open but barely enough to allow three adult Kryptonians to march out. 

One of them is Ter-Zod, and Jor-El frowns at him, but Ter-Zod sweeps his gaze over the crowd of cadets and doesn't seem to see him, coming to parade rest at the top of the slabs of steps that lead up from the square courtyard. He's visibly armed, with a photon blaster, holstered at his hip, while the female Kryptonian beside him wears a rifle slung over her back. Her hair is shorn to the skin, save for a long tail of russet hair that drops in a thick braid down to her waist, her shoulders bared under persteel, covered with black inked tattoos - a throwback art, Jor-El thinks, fascinated. She wears no Crest - another shocking detail - but stands shoulder to shoulder with Ter-Zod as though her Houseless status matters little. 

If Ter-Zod is here… then perhaps Dru-Zod is here as well. Yes. That's quite likely - he's unlikely to have graduated as yet. Jor-El feels the very first touch of anticipation. He hasn't seen Dru-Zod in _cycles_ , not since his visit to the Zod Estates. He wonders how the older boy is faring.

The third Kryptonian is a short, whipcord-thin old Kryptonian, an old gash over his lips pulling up his mouth into a permanent, manic grin. His poise is slightly stooped, at an unnatural angle, but there's grace still in his movements, and purpose. He wears no apparent weapons but wristblades, tucked in infinitum steel vambraces, and he smiles thinly at them all as he looks them over. Over his chest, he wears an unfamiliar House Crest.

"Aethyr's breath," he mutters, into the hush. "Another pathetic Cycle intake. A handful of Houseless boys - hn, perhaps you lot might prove properly malleable - third and second year children… already hopeless, the lot of you, I can see it… and _ah_ ," Jor-El straightens up as he realizes that the Kryptonian is staring right at him and Faora-Ul. "Two Pure Line brats." 

Jor-El stares, shocked at the old Kryptonian's brutal language, but Faora-Ul's expression is impassive, her hands folded behind her back, standing at parade rest. "House Ul," the old Kryptonian sneers. "What do you have to say for yourself, girl?"

"That we formally recognise General Trus-Vex of House Vex," Faora-Ul replies coolly, with a glance at the old Kryptonian's crest, "And while we would remind House Vex of its defeat at our hands during the Second Thier-ka War, we respectfully yet extend our greetings."

"Hah!" Trus-Vex barks, narrow-eyed, but Faora-Ul's gaze doesn't falter. "You are Hu-Ul's daughter?"

"Yes, sir."

"Your father," Trus-Vex grunts, "Is a pain in the aether, girl, and I see that the seed hasn't fallen far from the tree. You are on latrine duty this week." 

"But that is _unfair_ ," Jor-El finds himself objecting, incredulous. "The fault began not with-" 

"And you," Trus-Vex squints at him. "I wondered when you would speak up. Seyg-El's oldest whelp. The very first of the House of El who would deign to dip his toes in the trenches, hm?"

Jor-El wants to snap _not by choice_ , but somehow, he manages to hold his tongue. None of them are precisely here by choice. Insane and bewildering as his situation is, this is where he has been sent. This is his lot, for the rest of his life. "Sir."

"Soft hands," Trus-Vex sneers. "Soft enough for proper work?"

"I am a self-taught engineer, sir," He doesn't know where he finds the sentiment within him, but he bucks steel into his tone, the same steel that Faora-Ul had shown, "My hands have not been soft for years." 

"Hold that thought," Trus-Vex retorts, "And perhaps you'll even live past the first week. You are also on latrine duty for the week. The rest of you sorry failures, follow An'kka here to the inner vestries for equipment reassignment. The two of you Pure Line brats stay. You're both to understand," he snaps coldly, "That your blood serves you ill here rather than well. We give Pure Line children no preferences."

The others file past, some even giving them briefly guarded, sympathetic glances, and when they're far past the doors, following the female Kryptonian, Trus-Vex sighs, darting Ter-Zod a hard stare. "Is this your doing, Ter?" 

"He is promised to the House of Zod," Ter-Zod lifts a shoulder into a brief shrug, "And we have no use for… _engineers_."

Jor-El snaps an accusing glare over to Ter-Zod, but he's blithely ignored, even as he clenches his fists. Trus-Vex merely grunts. "I have no idea how you cleared that with Seyg-El _and_ the Ministry, and I do not wish to know. You have thrown a little zuurt lamb into a den of beasts, Ter. If El blood stains the gravstones, it could go poorly for the Military Guild."

"Then it will be your task to ensure that he is given the appropriate skills with which to survive his training," Ter-Zod flicks Jor-El an impassive glance, and turns away towards the double doors, his stride loping and all too familiar. Jor-El clenches his teeth tightly, and breathes out only when Faora-Ul touches his wrist.

"Uncle," she greets Trus-Vex then, and there's a faint smile to her lips, but it's warm. The old Kryptonian snorts.

"I am going to have to be harder on you and Jor-El here than the rest," Trus-Vex says shortly, then. "Do you understand why, boy?"

Jor-El bites back the first response on his mind, and breathes out. He remembers the few sympathetic glances. "I think so, yes."

"Good. Have you had any combat training whatsoever?"

"No. My assignment to the Military Guild," Jor-El decides to admit, "Was a little of a shock."

Trus-Vex grunts. "Aye. Aye, I imagine. Tch. You keep close to Faora here. Learn from her, if you can. And for Rao's sake, try not to get killed. Oversoul, the Council has enough problems, we do _not_ need to start some sort of civil war. Dismissed."

Cycle-One cadets do not get to wear persteel, and Jor-El accepts the storm gray, stiff metacloth cadet uniforms with reluctance. Several of his classmates are grudgingly handing over personal weapons - Faora-Ul concedes a serrated, barely legal terravir dagger, to the attendant's evident surprise. He waits, still feeling all too lost, as they are assigned to their bunks in the cadet barracks, and he awkwardly fits his gear into his assigned lockers, changing into uniform.

Cycle-One cadets also share one single huge room together, and it's an utterly unsettling experience: Jor-El is used to having his own chambers, the whole set of which is larger than the residential chamber assigned to his entire Cycle-One squad. Trus-Vex had truly meant it when he had said that Pure Line scions were shown no preference: his bunkmate on the lower bunk is one of the Houseless boys, thickset and already broad-shouldered, almost a head taller than the rest. He moves with a slow, methodical purpose that rather reminds Jor-El of a grillig. 

"Jor," Jor-El introduces himself, deciding, at the least, to try to be friendly, but the boy doesn't meet his gaze, murmuring something unintelligible instead. Deflating, Jor-El looks around for Faora-Ul, but she's several bunks down and talking to a pair of other boys taller than her. He's on his own. 

He tries to talk to a few other boys, but they mostly shuffle away or try to ignore him, and it's only when he gives up and starts to head back to his bunk when a skinny, tall boy with a narrow face sidles up to him. "Greetings." The boy sticks out a palm, clasping his hand. "Rax Tao-Rul. Second cousin to a mutual friend," Rax Tao-Rul smiles a crooked, secretive smile. "Lara's family asked me to keep an eye out for you."

"Thank you," Jor-El notes wryly, "But right now, I think I just need someone to talk to."

"Ah, them?" Rax Tao-Rul shoots the other boys a dismissive glance. "Your father is the most powerful Kryptonian in the Dreaming City. Half of them think that you are bad news, and don't want to be close by when the kryp drops, and the other half's probably wondering whether they can give you a broken bone or two without getting caught." Rax Tao-Rul barks out a soft, sharp laugh, even as Jor-El blinks at him, startled.

"Why?"

"Why? Seyg-El's growing less popular with the Houses because of his soft approach to the Solton problem - which is only growing worse, mind you - and is already unpopular with the Houseless because he's been diverting so many resources to resolving said problem 'peacefully' that the sting's starting to get felt. Energy's rationed out in the Low Tiers, after all, and the Houseless can forget about getting personal quotas nowadays," Rax Tao-Rul explains, when Jor-El looks even more confused. "Didn't you know?"

"No," Jor-El admits, astonished; he had always taken all of his House's technology for granted. 

"Well, the world's running out of it," Rax Tao-Rul grunts, "And the people on the lower rungs are usually the first to get squeezed. So. I'll try to help, for Lara. But watch your own back."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll try not to spend TOO long mucking around Jor-El's childhood, because, underage. But yes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Military life... doesn't seem to be as fatal as it was made out to be.

V.

After the first month, life in the Military Guild, Jor-El has to admit, is not as bad as Trus-Vex had made it out to be. Most of the Cycle-One classes are academic in nature, to his (pleasant) surprise, with only one class involving basic combat. An eidetic memory made studying easier, giving him more time to work on strengthening his frame.

The best bio-engineering that wealth and influence could buy had been of some help here: not that his poor mother or father had likely ever thought that it would serve him this way. Still, Jor-El knows that he would have to force himself to get into shape; all that bio-engineering did for him was allow his body to naturally endure more punishment. 

As to his supposed enemies, Jor-El still isn't sure what to make of his classmates. As far as he can tell, all of them were legitimately in the Military Guild. He tells Faora-Ul this, as he goes through the exercise routine on autopilot, and she snorts.

"I would trust none of them," Faora-Ul offers loftily, balanced perfectly on a waist-high bar.

"Not even Rax Tao-Rul?"

Faora-Ul snorts, as Jor-El expected: she has had no interest so far in befriending any but the very best in their combat class - Jor-El excluded - which means that she has only viewed Rax Tao-Rul's overtures of friendship with disdain. It's become a point of amusement between Rax Tao-Rul and himself. Faora-Ul is only interested in the most deadly: whether it's weapons, martial arts, or boys.

As Jor-El watches, she takes herself through a complex martial routine that looks more like a dance than anything else. It's Horu-Kanu, a deceptively deadly technique, according to Jor-El's research, and he's surprised that Faora-Ul has tried to learn it. He tells her this, and she rolls her eyes, even as she flips neatly back onto her hands, her body one clean line pointed up to the red sun. 

"Horu-Kanu is about balance, you ignorant boy," she growls, as she flicks herself back up onto her feet. "It has both defensive and offensive katas. It only so happens that its offensive katas are better known."

"It is graceful," Jor-El allows, and when Faora-Ul glances at him, he adds, "Like dancing."

"Stop talking like an outsider," Faora-Ul retorts, "And you may even make a few friends here." 

He does take her point - eventually. Jor-El excels academically, but is careful never to mention it, playing it down when the subject is brought up. He tries his best to stay humble. He works hard. It takes him half a cycle to start to hold his own among the other boys, and only after Faora-Ul grudgingly teaches him a few of the defensive katas. It takes him another half a cycle to start getting bare passes on his combat grades, but only by a little.

"The problem with you," Faora-Ul tells him, at the top of their class for combat and unashamedly proud of it, "Is that you keep pulling all your punches."

"I do not want to hurt anyone," Jor-El points out. He's very conscious of the fact that his Pure Line body is engineered to be able to give out as much as it can take. Against particularly the Houseless boys, it's an unfair advantage. " _And_ ," he adds gently, when Faora-Ul rolls her eyes, "You need to work harder on your history."

"Pre-evolutionary tactics," Faora-Ul's lip curls. "Whatever is the point? Our technology has evolved. _We_ have evolved."

"The point is not the battle itself," Jor-El blocks her feint to his jaw, ducking and weaving as she follows through with a vicious kick, "But the _thinking_ behind it, and through that, the application of - oof - of its grasp of context." 

"Your 'excellent' understand of 'tactical schema' doesn't seem to be improving your grasp of this kata," Faora-Ul shoots back, and she feints another jab before abruptly dropping and snapping her heel into his knee. He yelps as he's knocked off balance onto the practice mat, and she presses her heel pointedly into the small of his back before stepping aside and hauling him back up. "You'll fail the end of cycle combat practicals, at this rate."

Jor-El finds himself trying to correlate Flurr-Rex's Maximas with personal training, gets punched in the solar plexus for his efforts, and lies gasping on the practice mats, vaguely grateful that the Cycle-One gyms are quiet at this time of day. Faora-Ul starts to laugh, then she abruptly falls silent, and even as Jor-El rolls onto his back, an unfamiliar hand drops into his field of vision. 

He lets himself get hauled up, and it takes a moment for him to recognise Dru-Zod, in a Cycle-Three cadet's uniform, sleek and as severe as ever, narrow-eyed as he looks Jor-El slowly over. He's older now, taller, his shoulders filling almost to his father's breadth, and his face has lost most of that childish vulnerability; now he radiates confidence instead of reserve. Jor-El gapes, kicks himself mentally for gaping, and manages to murmur a stuttered greeting. 

Dru-Zod glances over at Faora-Ul, who ducks her head and all but scurries out of the gym, leaving them alone. Jor-El is suddenly aware that he's only dressed in an undershirt and breeches, barefoot and sweaty, his hair cut ridiculously short, and he's yet to hit the best of his growth spurt, if ever - his eyes come up about level with Dru-Zod's broad chest. 

"You, uh," he manages to say, "Never got around to teaching me how to walk quietly."

The older boy tilts his head, still impassive. "You never did visit," he replies neutrally.

"My father said I was not to do so," Jor-El is all too aware that he's starting to flush in embarrassment. "And besides, you wouldn't… usually be home, would you? You would be here." 

It's a stupid excuse, now that he's spoken it out loud. Even if he didn't visit, he could have tried a vidlink, or a commlink, if he had really wanted to talk to Dru-Zod. He could have walked up the few floors to the Cycle-Three quarters. But he hadn't tried, and over the cycles, it had seemed easier just to forget about things. 

And in any case, Jor-El thinks irritably, it isn't as though Dru-Zod hasn't had ample revenge for any sort of neglect. The thought makes him brusque. "What do you want?"

Dru-Zod arches an eyebrow slightly at his edged tone. "I was curious."

"Satisfied?"

"Surprised, perhaps." Dru-Zod lifts a shoulder into a shrug. "It has been a cycle. You have every advantage. Perhaps not the weight and height, but you have speed and strength."

"I don't," Jor-El narrows his eyes, "Want to hurt anyone."

"Unless you intend to repeat Cycle-One, I see no alternative. Your classmates will heal."

"Maybe I will repeat Cycle-One," Jor-El retorts, belligerent now. "I don't belong here. You _know_ that I'm only here because of your-"

" _Careful_ ," Dru-Zod snaps, and Jor-El bares his teeth, all his resentment clawing, for an instant, past his self-control. He's _furious_.

"I'll say what I like. I don't know what my father may have traded yours for, but this is _unreasonable_. I was _meant_ for the Science Guild, not this place!"

"You are _meant_ to answer any calling that the Ministry provides you, _child_ ," Dru-Zod's voice cracks like a whip, "And you should learn. Your. Place."

Jor-El snarls, his self-control snapping: he aims a jab at Dru-Zod's unprotected neck, the same way he's seen Faora-Ul take down larger opponents, and Dru-Zod deflects the blow, and the next, sidesteps and throws a punch of his own. Jor-El turns it off-target with the blunt of his hand, the way An'kka has shown them, and gets in a blow with the heel of his hand, locked tight, against Dru-Zod's ribs.

Dru-Zod grunts, and Jor-El falters, his reason briefly stepping in, and in his hesitation he finds himself picked up and slammed against the wall, an arm pinned over his neck. Dru-Zod studies him with the same impassive expression, then he lets him go, slowly.

"You're far better when you don't pull your punches," he says quietly. "Use your anger."

"I won't. I-"

"If you fail to pass," Dru-Zod interrupts flatly, "My father will very likely see it as an embarrassment."

"Why would he care?" Jor-El scowls. "He already has what he wants."

Something odd twists its way across Dru-Zod's face, briefly, then his expression goes impassive again. " _I_ care."

"My apologies," Jor-El retorts, "That your _bond-mate_ fails to excel at a role that he was never intended for."

Dru-Zod makes a frustrated sound, then he exhales loudly. "For the rest of our lives we will be bound together and you-" he cuts himself off sharply, then narrows his eyes. "Do you still want to learn how to ride one of our hybrids?"

"Well," Jor-El blinks, momentarily distracted. "Of course." 

"Then use what you have learned. _Properly_. Try to perform as well at the practicals as you have in the theoretical examinations. In another half a month the Academy will be on a break. Come by my House's estates." 

Dru-Zod's voice is stilted, Jor-El realizes, not because the older boy is annoyed, but because he is making a request, for all that he couches it in instructions. He does truly want Jor-El to pass, and pass _well_. But where had all this sentiment come from? He hasn't seen Dru-Zod in _cycles_. It had been-

But of course.

"Have you been watching me?" Jor-El asks, curious. "All this while? In the Academy?" He had never so much as seen a shadow of the older boy, but Dru-Zod does walk like a ghost. 

"At times," Dru-Zod mutters, then adds, gruffly, "Not always," which makes Jor-El start to grin, and Dru-Zod glowers at him, but it's too late. "You have genuinely tried to learn," Dru-Zod adds irritably, "An'kka can see that. That's why she is patient with you where she'll have beaten that bad habit of yours out of another child." 

"I like her," Jor-El shrugs, and Dru-Zod frowns at him.

"She's Houseless."

"So? She'll wipe the floor with you if she wants to. Probably your father, as well," Jor-El adds, knowing that he's toeing propriety, but he's buzzed from the not-quite fight, and doesn't care. It's exhilarating, especially when Dru-Zod merely sniffs. 

"And that Ul girl," he adds.

"What about Faora?"

"Faora _-Ul_ ," Dru-Zod corrects, arching his eyebrows slightly. "Her father, General Hu-Ul, is not a friend of my House."

"And so? His daughter is my friend."

"She could also be an enemy. Just like that Tao-Rul boy. It is no secret that his House is generations in debt."

"I think that you're being paranoid," Jor-El says mildly, aiming to irritate, "And if I didn't know better I would think that you were being jealous."

Dru-Zod, to Jor-El's shock, actually reddens. "Nothing of the sort," he snaps, "I expect better of you," he adds, almost as an afterthought, and exits the gym stiffly. Jor-El stares after his retreating back, still startled. Dru-Zod was…? 

Well. That was interesting.

He'll probably get punched in the jaw if he tries to confide anything non-combative in nature with Faora-Ul, so he goes to Rax Tao-Rul, wishing yet again that the Military Guild allowed outside comm links during semesters. He really needed Nim-El for this. Or even Lara.

"Ah yes, I heard about that," Rax Tao-Rul smirks at him, in the Cycle-One rec room. "You and Dru-Zod. My father thinks it's a temp thing. Maybe it isn't after all, eh?" 

"Temp?"

"You're promised," Rax Tao-Rul shrugs, "Not yet bonded. Five cycles to go, and that's a long time in politics."

"I don't mind him," Jor-El says honestly. 

"That's your default attitude towards everyone," Rax Tao-Rul rolls his eyes, "Even to Yan Car-Zak's gang." Most of the fourth and fifth tier House boys and girls had banded together - excluding Rax Tao-Rul - confident in their numbers, they had quite quickly lost any awe they had in Pure Line Houses. 

Jor-El shrugs. "People like banding together."

"Do people normally like bullying smaller people too?"

"It's hardly sociologically unusual. They'll grow out of it in time."

"You," Rax Tao-Rul shakes his head, "Were probably dropped a couple of times when you were a baby."

VI.

To everyone's surprise, including Faora-Ul's, he averages enough at the trials to place himself at the overall top of his class, and although he tries to look for Dru-Zod in the sea of faces when he earns the auxlic pin in the Great Hall, he doesn't see him anywhere. Disappointed, he trudges back to his bunk, to pack up his things: his parents have arranged a jumpship to take him home immediately for the break - and finds himself tugged down a corridor away from the chattering crowds and into a room.

It's Dru-Zod, and despite himself, Jor-El grins. "Where were you?"

"Standing with the Cycle-Threes, obviously," Dru-Zod notes, with a glance at his pin. "Congratulations."

Jor-El has been mentally revising this script all klick, and it turns out to be easy to say anyway. "I did it for you. Because you asked."

Dru-Zod doesn't redden this time, though he ducks his gaze quickly, as though embarrassed. "Of course," he says, his tone gruff. "I'll speak to my father about the hybrids. More importantly-"

"I thought this meant that I _would_ be riding hybrids," Jor-El cuts in, trying not to pout. 

"Very likely," Dru-Zod looks a little annoyed at the interruption, "Every member of my House can ride one. I see no reason why you shouldn't learn."

"So I didn't have to bargain with you after all?" Jor-El taps at the pin. 

"You," Dru-Zod growls, "Are utterly exasperating, on top of being far more lucky than you should be."

"Lucky?" 

"That second to last trial combat," Dru-Zod points out. "Remember?"

Jor-El does. The other boy had been one of the Houseless ones, bulky like the rest, slower; Jor-El hadn't even been scratched. "What about him?" He pauses briefly. "He wasn't at the ceremony."

"That's because he's dead," Dru-Zod said shortly, and when Jor-El sucks in a sharp breath, adds, "Keep it _down_."

"What - how did you-" 

"He was found in the shower stalls earlier, in the third quadrant gyms. I heard the news through the infogrid in my father's office. His nails were threaded with Uls'anke poison. Do you know what that is?"

Jor-El shudders. "I've heard of it."

"If he had so much as scratched you," Dru-Zod exhales, and Jor-El grows cold, blinking slowly. That _had_ been far too close. "He was probably disposed of since he had failed. Investigations are proceeding. Trus-Vex is looking into it."

"But why would he want to kill me?" Jor-El asks, bewildered. "We weren't friends, but we weren't _enemies_. Maybe he was targeting one of the others. Or-"

"Almost everyone here is probably your enemy," Dru-Zod says gruffly. "Because of your lineage. The situation with Solton is delicate, especially with the other Oorn-Zone states also on the verge of secession. The energy ration restrictions haven't been-" Dru-Zod briefly cuts himself off, and he adds, more neutrally, "I'll walk you to your jumpship. Watch yourself."

Shaken, Jor-El allows Dru-Zod to lead him to the jumpship in silence. Nim-El is there, although his twin's grin and brilliant joy at seeing him again is almost enough to cut through his darkening mood, it isn't. He turns back to look at Dru-Zod, who nods at them before starting to head back down the launch strip, and on impulse, Jor-El wriggles free of his brother's tight hug and jogs back over to him.

"Ah," he manages, rather unintelligently, when Dru-Zod stops and arches an eyebrow at him. "Um. Enjoy your break. Looking forward to the lesson."

"Go home, Jor," Dru-Zod replies, not unkindly, and keeps walking. Jor-El's still grinning when he boards the jumpship with Nim-El beside him, and Nim-El frowns.

"What?"

 _Jor_. "Nothing." It was a small gesture, anyway. Maybe. "I am _so_ glad to see you, Nim."

"Your hair-"

" _Don't_."

"It's a disaster," Nim-El declares, leaning over to ruffle the short spikes, and Jor-El growls and shoves him. For a moment, the cycle that they've been apart is far behind them, but naturally, being his brother, and his twin at that, Nim-El blithely spoils it. "Dru-Zod? Really?"

"We _are_ promised," Jor-El pointed out dryly.

"He looks like someone hacked his face out of basalite," Nim-El retorts. "You didn't mention that before."

"That's because it isn't true," Jor-El mutters, feeling a touch irritated on Dru-Zod's behalf, despite himself. "And just for that, when _you_ get bonded, your bondmate will probably look like a snagri-"

"Jor!" 

They're still squabbling by the time the jumpship lands, bickering as they tumble out and into their mother's arms: Nimda An-Dor weeps as she crushes them close, and at her feet, their little brother Zor-El, now four cycles old, eyes them thoughtfully, then squawks in outrage as Nim-El scoops him up for a hug. 

"Your father will be home early," their mother refuses to let them go, clasping their hands as retainers pick up their bags and disappear into the El estates. "You both _must_ get changed immediately. I've arranged something special tonight to welcome the both of you home. Don't ask! It is a surprise."

" _Mother_ ," they both groan, nearly with the same cadence, both amply aware of Nimda An-Dor's penchant for lavish 'surprises', and she laughs.

"By the Oversoul, I've forgotten how I've missed even _that_. Come. You must tell me everything." 

It feels odd changing back into his House robes, the weight now uneven over his shoulders and too soft and giving over his arms. Jor-El stares at himself in the mirror of his ensuite bathroom - larger even than the shared bathroom of his squad - and grips at the sink, rolling his shoulders. They're visibly broader than they were before, and muscle dips, sharp and defined, over his shoulders and arms. He looks like a stranger compared to the boy dropped so unceremoniously into the Military Guild, only one cycle ago, and he smiles wryly to himself.

Perhaps Lara was right, after all. They are what they are all bred to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> god damn three chapters in, still kids. starting to ramble.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dru-Zod keeps his promises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm using the movieverse pet appearance for the hybrids.

VII.

The first week runs in a flurry of social obligations: as the oldest son of the House of El, Jor-El can't quite avoid them. He tries to keep in contact with the few friends he's made in the guild, even if Faora-Ul's responses tend to be curt and monosyllabic, and Rax Tao-Rul mostly complains about being mired in 'unending boredom'.

It takes him a few tries to compose a message to Dru-Zod, his attempts ranging from formal to casual to playful, and eventually he just goes with matter-of-fact, outright asking Dru-Zod when it would be convenient to visit. Dru-Zod doesn't reply, and Jor-El tries not to feel hurt. He does try to keep busy, though. The break runs four months, and that's all the time he has to get back up to speed with experimental physics theorems. Lara's offered him the use of her Science Guild password, but Jor-El can manage the security on his own: he's been trying to take in as much of the Cycle-One syllabus as he can.

He's still working on creating a compact AI system for drone fitout, when Nim-El drags him back to the Botanical Dome, for some 'fresh air'. They play at cards with Lara for a while and watch the newest acquisition - a still-tiny juvenile levisaur - sweep about in its tank. When Nim-El circles to the far end for a look at the modular reef, Lara touches Jor-El's arm.

"How have you been, Jor? In the Military Guild?"

"It's actually not as bad as I thought."

"Really," Lara offers him a small smile. "That's just like you. Trying to make the best of everything."

"What else is there to do?" Jor-El looks back over to the supple length of the levisaur. "It's not so bad. And it does have a research wing. I'll try to get selected for that, I suppose. At the postgrad specialisation."

"Make weapons? You?" 

"Or make shields," Jor-El corrects. "Quite a lot of our everyday tech was originally military tech. Life-support systems, for example. So. I suppose it is not so bad."

"What if you don't get selected? What then?"

"I suppose…" Jor-El hesitates. He isn't sure. Technically, House El is wealthy enough that he doesn't actually _need_ to perform a social function to support himself, anathema as the idea is. "I suppose I'll have to work hard and keep trying."

"Something isn't right here," Lara mutters. "My father's been trying to look into it." 

"Your father likes his conspiracy theories," Jor-El notes dryly, "But thanks for asking Rax to help me."

"Rax?"

"Your second cousin? Rax Tao-Rul? He said that he was looking out for me on your behalf."

"Oh," Lara looks briefly confused. "House Tao-Rul. That's probably Father's doing. He was surprised and worried when I told him where you had been assigned. He was rather hoping that you would have been entered into the experimental physics program."

Lara's father was a member of Krypton's token space exploration program. Hobbled by resources and a lack of funding, they hadn't managed anything further than a moon skip in _cycles_. "Thank him for me, then. Rax is a good friend. I'm surprised that _you_ haven't been eaten by your charges," he adds, off-handedly, and she pulls a face, about to answer him when she abruptly stiffens, glancing to her right.

Dru-Zod is standing politely at the entrance to the levisaur pool, his hands folded behind his back. "Jor-El. A word?"

Nim-El starts to walk over, but at Jor-El's quick glance, he hesitates. "Of course," Jor-El notes, and steps over to Dru-Zod. They walk out to the adjoining corridors, and further into another chamber, an aviary of riso parrots that squawk and shrill at the invasion. 

"How did you know that we were here?" Jor-El begins: he can barely hear himself over the noise, and he's about to suggest that they go somewhere quieter when he realizes that this is probably intentional. Anyone listening from beyond the aviary wouldn't be able to hear anything.

Dru-Zod shrugs. "The House El jumpship is hardly unnoticeable." 

Oh. "I sent you a message." 

"So you did." Dru-Zod looks briefly uncomfortable. "My father has not been receptive to the suggestion. He says that the hybrids are a House treasure, and you are not yet fully promised to me. He has instructed me not to allow you to visit the eyries." 

"Oh," Jor-El's disappointed, but he supposes that he can see Ter-Zod's point. "Thanks for trying."

"Still," Dru-Zod looks even more uncomfortable, "I did trade with you."

"Yes you did, but this isn't exactly within your control."

"You are disappointed."

"Well, of course, but-" 

Dru-Zod exhales, and averts his eyes briefly. "It isn't… unusual for members of my House to take a hybrid out flying, or to bring more than one for exercises, and be away for hours at once," he says studiously. "Perhaps in two klicks or so I may be visiting the desert quadrant of the Botanical Dome, around the same time as today."

"Won't you get into trouble?"

There's a sharp grin on Dru-Zod's face that fades quickly. "Only if I get caught."

"I do not wish to trouble you," Jor-El can't help grinning in response, though. He's read up on hybrid splicing and snagriffs, and had even managed to poke around the few public and semi-public files about the House Zod hybrids. As far as he can tell, they're meant to be marvels of hybrid bioengineering, partly pioneered by House Ur, funded by House Zod. This should be interesting to study firsthand.

"You should," Dru-Zod mutters. "You should be able to ask things of me. Just like I should be able to ask things of _you_. For all that we are promised, we are still kept strangers."

Five cycles is a long time in politics, Jor-El recalls, and for all that they've become, they've still as yet only been traded as possibilities. But perhaps not everything is out of their control. Impulsively, he reaches over to grasp Dru-Zod's right palm. "We can work around that," he decides. "If you want something from me, just ask." 

The tips of Dru-Zod's ears redden, but he squeezes Jor-El's hand lightly. "I will remember that," he promises solemnly.

"See you in two klicks."

VIII.

He has to confess everything to Nim-El in order to get his brother's help sneaking out of the House estates on a pretext, and has to promise Nim-El all manner of favours and threats just to prevent his twin from following him.

As it is, he isn't sure if Nim-El has kept to his end of the bargain, and Jor-El spends most of the trip looking over his shoulder. 

The desert quadrant is uncomfortably hot, and despite having worn his most lightweight clothes, Jor-El is sweating and sandy by the time Dru-Zod cuts down out of the sky, his hybrid landing with a hop and a snap of its wings on the sand. Another, smaller hybrid makes a neater landing behind it, craning its neck to glance at Jor-El with animal curiosity. This close, their warm scent: part beast, part reptile - is far stronger, but it isn't unwelcome, especially when Dru-Zod dismounts to greet him.

The hybrid snagriffs retain the snagriff snouts and frontal limbs, but their bodies are stouter and more compact, their wings narrower and mounted on what seems to be far more revolvable joints, allowing for greater manoeuvrability, their thick hind legs almost insectile in their segmentation and broad, two-toed. They're built for speed and endurance, judging from the thick corded wing muscle and the powerful hind legs, but even with the sharp teeth and talons on display, it's clear that they aren't particularly bred to be weapons. 

"This one is with me," Dru-Zod tries to sound brusque, but his pride still gets through as he pats the larger hybrid over its snout. "R'Druk. And this one," Dru-Zod makes a whistling sound, and the smaller hybrid ambles forward a step, "Is H'Raka."

The hybrid makes a chirping, grunting sound at its name, but Dru-Zod grips Jor-El's shoulder when he tries to walk forward. R'Druk has a greenish tint to its scales, but H'Raka is a hazel brown with a bit of bronze over its wings, and its claws dig impatiently into the sand even as R'Druk sits quietly. "Careful. Stand still. He does not know you." 

"I'm not afraid."

"It is not a matter of being afraid," Dru-Zod snorts. "But having some respect." He whistles again, and H'Raka lifts its head, padding forward heavily on its hind legs, until it is close enough to touch. It sniffs at Dru-Zod's shoulder, politely, then swings its huge muzzle over to regard Jor-El. This close, the creature's eyes are amber, with full nictitating membranes, and its breath is hot as it sniffs at him.

Then it draws back, sitting down on its hindquarters, and Dru-Zod notes, "You can touch him now. Probably."

" _Probably_?"

Dru-Zod smirks at him, but Jor-El has already reached out, hesitantly. H'Raka hisses, its head jerking back a fraction, then it tilts down its blunt muzzle as though deigning to allow him a pat. The hybrid's skin is smooth, warm to the touch, and when Jor-El tickles down under its chin, it makes a rumbling, multitonal sound.

"That's interesting," Dru-Zod notes. "He hasn't let anyone do that to him before."

"Is he yours, too?"

"No. We only have one," Dru-Zod jerks his head in R'Druk's direction. "He isn't spoken for."

"But you brought him here?"

"He's a little more patient than the other young hybrids." Dru-Zod walks over to R'Druk's saddlebags, rummaging in it and returning with an oilcloth bag. He reaches in it and tosses a bloody chunk of… something… at R'Druk, and the hybrid snaps it out of the air with whip-quick speed. "Here." Dru-Zod hands the bag over to him. "Try it. Don't offer it in your palm, unless you want to lose your hand."

Jor-El tries not to recoil at the cold, wet texture of the chopped meat, and H'Raka ignores his first tossed offering, though the hybrid does bend to sniff at the meat on the sand. "He won't eat."

"He does not know you," Dru-Zod shrugs. "Try again."

It takes a few more pieces before H'Raka finally snaps one out of the air, swallowing, then it shakes out its wings expectantly, watching them both. "Now? Can I get on…" Jor-El glances over at H'Raka. "Do you have a spare saddle?"

"You can't ride, not yet," Dru-Zod drawls, "He'll attack you now if you try, and besides, you don't even know any of the commands. We'll see how he responds to you. Wait here." 

Dru-Zod walks some distance away. He whistles - the sound pitched higher than before, and R'Druk pads over sedately to him, rubbing its cheek heavily against Dru-Zod's back before sitting by his side. "Now you try it. Make eye contact and whistle."

It takes him half an hour to finally get the correct tone, and another half an hour for H'Raka to finally take a step forward - and then curl up on the sand with a big yawn. Jor-El looks over to Dru-Zod, leaning on R'Druk in the shade of the hybrid's wings, and the older boy hastily covers his mouth as if to hide a laugh. 

"I don't think he likes me after all," Jor-El mutters.

"If you can't call him, then you can't ride him."

H'Raka does snap a piece of meat out of the air, when Jor-El tosses one over, but he merely settles back onto his hindquarters. "How long did it take you to be able to call R'Druk?"

"I've been handling R'Druk since she hatched. That makes things a little easier." 

"A _little_ easier?"

"Maybe a lot easier," Dru-Zod concedes, though he's smirking again.

"Can people who _aren't_ of your House actually ride them?" Jor-El asks dryly, "Because if this is meant to be some sort of abject lesson in futility-"

"You will be of my House," Dru-Zod lifts a shoulder in a shrug. "And my mother used to ride. So my father has said."

Dru-Zod's mother passed on when he was very young, Jor-El recalls: there had been some sort of accident, in the Outer Reaches. There hadn't been very much information at all on the infogrid, and not for lack of trying. Still, Dru-Zod's tone is casual, so he asks, "And how long did it take her to learn?"

"Cycles," Dru-Zod notes, and smirks again briefly before his expression goes impassive. "H'Raka is from the last clutch of eggs of her M'Souk."

He tries for another hour - futile - before they break for a drink, and they sit in R'Druk's shadow, on the hot sand: Dru-Zod won't consider leaving the hybrids out by themselves. Jor-El checks his infogrid slate, and is a little disappointed: he only had about two more hours before the jumpship will come for him. There's a function over in the Precept Ettershaunt that he's expected to attend, along with Nim-El and his mother, and although he had originally been excited to be invited - the prominent scientist Non Sul-Tor was going to be there, a member of the Council alongside his father and the main sponsor of Krypton's space program. 

Now, however- 

"Can you be here tomorrow?" he asks Dru-Zod hopefully. 

"Not tomorrow. Three klicks."

"Oh," He tries not to let his disappointment show, but Dru-Zod eyes him thoughtfully.

"We all have our responsibilities."

"I know. And you've already risked censure for me."

Dru-Zod's laughs in a sharp bark. "What can my father do to me? I'm his only heir. I've given him everything that he has ever asked for. I haven't asked for anything in return. Not until now." 

"That's…" Jor-El begins, then he hesitates. Seyg-El can be strict at times, but he still loves his children - not as fiercely as Nimda An-Dor, but it's still there. Dru-Zod's tone is flat, as though he's discussing a mercantile contract rather than a family bond, and Jor-El bites down on his lower lip, unsure of himself. 

"Try again," Dru-Zod nods at H'Raka. "You still have time."

"When you're free," Jor-El says impulsively, "You could visit me in the El estates. You haven't really met the rest of my family." 

Somehow, it's the wrong thing to say - Dru-Zod's expression is impassive again. "Go on," he prompts, as though Jor-El hasn't spoken. "Take the meat."

"I mean it," Jor-El retorts, stubborn when he wants to be, and Dru-Zod sighs. 

"That is not advisable."

"Why not?"

"Does your family," Dru-Zod notes dryly, "Truly want to meet me?"

"Why wouldn't they?" Jor-El scowls. "Besides, I want _them_ to meet _you_. I like you."

"You like everyone," Dru-Zod corrects, and makes a dismissive gesture. "Move."

Reluctantly, he gets to his feet. He tries again, but H'Raka only stares curiously at him, as though uncomprehending, and eventually, Jor-El sighs, squares his shoulders, and trudges over the sand to H'Raka. He glances over at Dru-Zod, but the older boy's still sitting on the sand, watching him. Dru-Zod's mouth quirks, as though amused, and Jor-El glowers at him, but this elicits no further response. 

He allows H'Raka to sniff him again, then he pets its muzzle, trying to recall all the research he had done over the last few klicks. True snagriffs are carnivores, and just like the hybrids, nest in eyries, but are solitary hunters and scavengers. Savage and untameable, they attack threats fearlessly, and their territories are scentmarked, often by multiple snagriffs from the eyrie. 

This gives him a little idea.

H'Raka makes a snuffling sound when Jor-El finds its scentglands, just behind its cheek guard, but doesn't move, even when Jor-El gingerly rubs his palm over it. The animal-reptile scent is thicker, now, and he swallows as he rubs the scent over his wrists and shoulders before presenting his hands back to H'Raka for a sniff.

This time, the hybrid snuffles at him for a while, snorting and hissing under its breath, then it sniffs at Jor-El's shoulders, snorting for a while more, then, as Jor-El hoped, it absently rubs its cheek plate heavily over his arm, to his shoulder blades. 

This time, when he walks some distance away and whistles, H'Raka ambles over to him and sits down, jaw lolling open to reveal a grayish tongue, and it snaps a chunk of meat deftly out of the air. He's flushed with pride as he looks over to Dru-Zod, grinning.

"Not bad," Dru-Zod notes mildly. "Good guess."

"You could have told me to do that from the _start_."

"I gave you quite a few hints." Dru-Zod shrugs. "You had to understand for yourself that they aren't pets. Up in the air, they're _partners_. You only stay on their back if they want you to be there."

"R'Druk doesn't belong to you," Jor-El interprets, "You belong to her." 

"That's how she sees it," Dru-Zod agrees, patting his hand against R'Druk's flank, and the hybrid rumbles contentedly. "You've learned the command to ask him to come to you. Here is the one instructing him to go." 

He's tired and a little hoarse by the time he gets the notification from Nim-El warning him that the jumpship was coming, but he still sighs, irritated. H'Raka chirps, eyeing him curiously. "I have to go. Three klicks, right? Back here?" 

He can't sound less boyish if he tried, but Dru-Zod nods, already pulling himself up onto R'Druk's back. He whistles, and H'Raka snorts, turning away from Jor-El, ambling over to R'Druk. Jor-El waves as they take flight, but Dru-Zod doesn't look back. 

"You smell," Nim-El tells him afterwards, wrinkling his nose, "As though you had a roll in the grillig enclosure."

"Close, but not exactly," Jor-El is hurrying towards his chambers. He needs to get cleaned up and dressed. "Did anyone ask questions?"

"Are you joking? _Everyone_ asked questions," Nim-El said sourly. "Lara helped cover for you. Said you wanted to help her with something in the Botanical Dome."

"I'll have to thank her."

"Is this the last of it? It's not, is it?" Nim-El says mournfully, watching his face, "At this rate, everyone's going to think that you want to get re-matched with Lara."

"We'll think of something." Jor-El grimaces. "I'm going back there in three klicks." 

Nim-El sighs. "What were you doing, anyway?"

"Honestly?" Jor-El hesitates, then he grins. "I've been learning to fly, Nim." Among other things. 

"I don't like that smile," Nim-El mutters. "I think it'll be easier if we just told Mother the truth, except that she'll probably faint. She doesn't like your bond-mate, and she certainly doesn't like snagriffs, hybrid or not."

"That will change." Jor-El says firmly. "On both counts." He hesitates. Nimda An-Dor's ambivalence towards large animal life forms is well known. "Maybe just the former."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flying is about taking a leap of faith.

IX.

"My mother's tried to invite you for our parties before," Jor-El tells Dru-Zod when they take a break, "But you've always declined."

"I suppose I have," Dru-Zod replies neutrally, taking a sip of water. 

Something in his tone makes Jor-El frown. "Were you the one who declined? Or was it your father?"

"Does it matter?"

"It matters to _me_ ," Jor-El says mulishly.

"His will is the will of my House, Jor."

"You're no puppet-"

"And if I want to risk bucking his edicts," Dru-Zod continues, ignoring the interruption, "Why would I do it for a mere _party_?"

"You could meet my friends," Jor-El points out. 

"I've met your friends."

"Only for all of ten seconds, which doesn't count."

"You have not met _my_ friends."

"I want to," Jor-El says challengingly. "Name a place and time."

Dru-Zod snorts, and behind him, R'Druk rumbles, even as sitting on the sand only a few feet away, H'Raka lets out a short chirp, as though the hybrids are trying to read the mood. Distracted, Jor-El studies them. "They talk to each other."

"Obviously."

He ignores the sarcasm. "How intelligent are they? Really?"

"They won't be able to best you at chess anytime soon." Dru-Zod, however, pats R'Druk, then he makes a gesture and a sharp whistle at H'Raka. 

H'Raka sniffs, and lumbers over, sinking its claws into the scruff of Jor-El's clothes and hefting him easily up into the air, despite his squawk of shock. Dru-Zod smirks, and H'Raka licks a wet and sticky stripe up Jor-El's cheek to his temple, its tongue rasping and warm.

"Dru! Get him to put me down!" 

"Ask him yourself," Dru-Zod retorts, and beside him, R'Druk lets out a chirp.

"What's the command?"

" _Ask_ him _yourself_ ," Dru-Zod repeats, more slowly, and smirks again. 

"Fine," Jor-El growls, twisting a little so that he can look into H'Raka's amber eyes. "H'Raka, put me down. Please." 

H'Raka tilts its head with a snort, then after a long moment, sets Jor-El gently down on the sand. "They can understand Kryptonian speech?" Jor-El demands, incredulous, as H'Raka flicks its thick tail, self-satisfied.

"Not exactly. They understand sentiments, though." 

"Then why all these nonverbal commands?"

"Because if you want to ask someone to work for you," Dru-Zod drawls, "Then it's only polite to do it in their language." 

This comment sticks with him all the way home, and the first thing Jor-El does after his shower is to use the infogrid array in his room to hack into the House Zod security feeds. He's since learned to be subtle, and this time he sneaks past the traps and trips without setting off anything. 

He spends the next two months between their all-too-short training sessions observing the hybrids and building a sonar bot to record and catalogue sounds and gestures. When they sleep - which seems to be often - Jor-El works on his other projects. He's nearly through the Cycle-One Experimental Physics modules by now, and he's thinking of starting on Cycle-Two.

What he learns is curious enough that he wonders whether the hybrid's fairly advanced communication abilities are natural - from the snagriffs - or bioengineered. He supposes that it's only tactically sound to have a smart steed, if that was what House Zod was looking for: somehow Jor-El doubts that sentiment factored into the equation.

Left to themselves, the hybrid snagriffs communicate, usually with voiced sounds, but also with body language. They are actually, he notices, more reserved when there are trainers about. It's beyond him what most of their vocalisations mean, even with the bot tracking and correlating data, but he does manage to start to piece together some basics, using the commands he learns from Dru-Zod as a platform.

It's worth two months of intense study to see Dru-Zod's expression, though, on the day that he manages to get H'Raka to knock Dru-Zod off his feet with its muzzle. Dru-Zod ends up flat on the sand, and H'Raka sits down, satisfied, even as R'Druk sniffs, shaking out its wings. Jor-El calls H'Raka back to him, even as Dru-Zod sits up, looking rueful. 

"Have you been hacking the House feeds again?"

"Maybe."

"You learn quickly," Dru-Zod concedes, with a touch of grudging admiration, and Jor-El decides not to raise the matter of the bot. With multiple AI upgrades, it had become very good at translating hybrid behaviour without prompting, particularly in the last few klicks.

"Can I fly now?" Jor-El asks, hopeful.

"Try to get on his back and see." Dru-Zod folds his arms over his chest, and although his expression doesn't change, by now, Jor-El is used enough to the older boy that he knows amusement when he sees it. 

Warily, he asks, "No saddle?"

"First flight? No saddle."

Jor-El grimaces, and pats H'Raka when it lowers its head curiously to snuffle at him. When he tries to climb awkwardly up onto H'Raka's shoulders, however, the hybrid pointedly steps away, leaving him sprawling on the sand.

He tries a few more times with various approaches, trying to communicate, first in Kryptonian, then in the hybrid's halting chirps and whistles, even with treats, and each time, he's either gently nudged away or H'Raka simply moves. After an hour or so, Jor-El slumps down on the sand next to Dru-Zod, who now looks far too amused. 

"Give me a hint. Please."

"That depends on whether you understood the point of the lesson."

"That you're going to be deliberately difficult whenever possible?" 

Dru-Zod arches an eyebrow, and Jor-El puts up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Sorry. I'm sorry. The point of the lesson is that it isn't going to be something simple like just walking up to H'Raka and climbing on. Am I right?"

"Right," Dru-Zod drawls. "Very good."

"And it took your mother cycles to get M'Souk to let her mount up?"

"Right again."

"I need to be better… friends with H'Raka first?"

"It helps, yes."

Jor-El sighs. "Can I borrow H'Raka? Take him home?"

"No, and don't look at me like that. It's a 'no'."

The plaintive look had been worth a shot. "Then how am I going to get closer to him?"

"With time."

Jor-El groans, and leans heavily against Dru-Zod. "You said that you were going to teach me how to ride."

"And I am," Dru-Zod shifts slightly, allowing Jor-El to settle more comfortably against his shoulder. "It just so happens that this will be a long lesson." 

"Give me a hint," Jor-El begs, "Please? You said that I could ask you for anything."

"You're misinterpreting the context," Dru-Zod mutters, though he sighs, and gets to his feet. His fingers work deftly at the buckles that strap R'Druk's saddle to her. "Get up. Hold this, and don't get any sand on the blanket. Otherwise, it'll irritate her scales when I have to strap it back on."

The saddle's heavier than it looks, and it's big enough that the straps and buckles trail all over the sand, even when he holds it the best that he can in his arms. Dru-Zod whistles at R'Druk, and the hybrid backs away, leaping up into the sky with a blur of wings, arching up until it's high above the Botanical Dome. 

Dru-Zod walks calmly across the sand, to the far end of the planarform, and then, to Jor-El's shock, he climbs up onto the safety railing.

" _Dru!_ " Jor-El calls out in horror, but Dru-Zod merely straightens up, balancing neatly on the rail, then he steps out into space and plummets out of sight. 

Jor-El gasps and nearly stumbles as he starts to run, but R'Druk streaks past, down out of the sky and past the planarform. It seems like eternity, his heart feels like it's stopped, he can't remember to breathe- 

-and then R'Druk is rising back up at a far more sedate speed, wings whirring, Dru-Zod settled primly on her back. The hybrid swoops over for another neat landing, chirping proudly to itself as Dru-Zod slaps his palm absently against her neck, and climbs off. He picks up the saddle from Jor-El wordlessly and straps it efficiently back on, careful to brush down the blanket for sand. 

Through it all, Jor-El just stares, still frozen with shock.

"Your hint," he drawls, turning back and finally breaking the spell, then he stiffens as Jor-El hugs him tightly, burying his face in his stiff House-crested black jacket. 

"You _scared_ me." His eyes are stinging, and he squeezes them shut, sucking in a shuddering breath. "You _jumped_."

"Did you think that I would truly leap to my death?"

"It's not meant to be _logical_ ," Jor-El growls, not moving. "You _jumped off the planarform_. What was I supposed to think? You could have warned me!"

"I knew what I was doing." 

" _I_ didn't!"

Big hands settle tentatively over his shoulders, then rub down over his back soothingly, in slow, descending circles, surprisingly gentle. It takes a while for him to control his breathing, and then he's embarrassed and red-faced from it as he pulls away. Dru-Zod's expression is carefully blank, and his hands hesitate over Jor-El's arms before they drop.

"Is that the only way?" Jor-El asks, uncomfortably. He doesn't usually act his age - it's not seemly, especially in public, and as the eldest son and heir he's always had to be careful. 

But seeing Dru - seeing Dru step _off_ that railing - he feels as though he should still be shaking apart. He's dizzy and still buzzed on adrenaline, still sick to his stomach - and it occurs to Jor-El, dimly, that this is the first time that he has truly felt fear. 

"As far as we know." Dru-Zod's tone is also neutral, and Jor-El ducks his head, stifling a sigh. He feels as though he's broken something. Dru-Zod had thought him a child during their first meeting: that sentiment had lasted more or less through the next. It's only recently that Jor-El feels that he's managed to earn a little respect. 

At least, until now. 

"All right," Jor-El mumbles. "I'll try it." Respect can be re-earned, perhaps.

"Not _now_."

"Why not?"

"Are you confident that H'Raka will catch you?"

"I won't know until I try," Jor-El points out, puzzled. "If the only way is to jump, then I'll jump." 

"It's only been effectively a few klicks. It is not yet time." 

Jor-El frowns at him, "So it is all right for _you_ to jump off the railing, but when I want to do it it isn't 'yet time'?"

"I've known R'Druk since she was hatched-"

"I could get H'Raka to knock you back on your rump, if you need another demonstration. He listens to me now. I am _not_ a _child_ to be _coddled_ , Dru-" 

" _Jor_. Not. Yet."

Jor-El glares at Dru-Zod, but eventually, he looks away. "Fine. I will follow your lead." 

"Good."

The rest of the session seems thoroughly awkward. He's still resentful at first, and annoyed, but eventually, worried that he's broken their fragile friendship, Jor-El pulls at Dru-Zod's sleeve just as he's about to leave. "When are we meeting again?"

"Three klicks," Dru-Zod says, after a pause, and some of Jor-El's relief probably shows on his face - Dru-Zod's mouth quirks slightly. "H'Raka will miss you otherwise."

"Will he be the only one who'll miss me?" Jor-El asks, before he can help himself, and Dru-Zod arches his eyebrows.

"R'Druk does not mind you," he says finally, and smirks when Jor-El mock-shoves him. Just like that, the awkwardness is gone. 

Other than with Nim-El, Jor-El's never been this easily comfortable with anyone else. It's a good feeling.

X.

Cycle-Two, to Jor-El's relief, still has a huge slant towards academia, particularly with regards to comparative politics and sociology. There's a lot of grumbling from the class, and Jor-El has to admit that he isn't sure what the point of some of the subjects are. Isn't the Military Academy just out to train soldiers? Why would a soldier need a viable grasp of modern social patterns?

"Because some combat situations need you to read people," Faora-Ul rolls her eyes when she asks him this. "If you can talk down your opponent from a fight, so much the better."

"That's better?"

"The perfect war is a war fought with no casualties." 

"I'm surprised to hear that coming from you," Jor-El suggests, and narrowly avoids getting kicked in the jaw. They're circling slowly in the larger and better-equipped Cycle-Two gym, ignoring the others working out around them. Their class is a little smaller: a couple of the Houseless boys seem to have dropped out. 

Jor-El had been surprised: for one of the Houseless to qualify for the Military Academy was likely a rare thing, compared to Manufacturing or Local Agriculture and such, the lowest tier Guilds - but Rax Tao-Rul had shrugged. Not many Houseless families can afford to send away their children for cycles at a time.

"Losing soldiers is a waste of resources," Faora-Ul retorts. 

"It's a waste of _life_ ," Jor-El corrects, a little wryly, "You sound just like Dru."

Faora-Ul sniffs. "House Ul has its disagreements with House Zod, but I suppose they do have their rational side." 

"What sort of disagreements?" Jor-El dodges a jab, tries to counter, and gets knocked off his feet. He rolls, with a huff, and scrambles back up, barely in time to parry another blow.

"Political disagreements. House Zod has views about bloodlines," Faora-Ul shrugs. "My father, on the other hand, avoids bloodline politics like the plague."

"What about you?"

"I cannot say that I am fond of Ter-Zod, but I see the logic of his views." 

"Really?" Jor-El is surprised enough that he gets knocked onto his back again. 

"If you're going to be distracted," Faora-Ul scowls at him, "We can practice some other time."

"No, well, you never struck me as, well." Jor-El blinks, as he pushes himself to his feet. "But _surely_ , I mean," he lowers his voice, with a glance at the other cadets practicing in the gym. "Everyone here is the same. We're all Kryptonians." 

"Hardly. And the sooner you learn that, the better you'll be. Guard up, Jor-El. Have you had no practice whatsoever during the entire break?"

Rax Tao-Rul is amused when Jor-El talks to him afterwards. "Actually, you're the unusual one, Jor-El. You're the only Pure Line person I have ever met who _hasn't_ been interested in bloodline politics. Which is strange, because as Pure Lines go, there's probably few 'purer' than you."

"You've met Trus-Vex," Jor-El points out, and Rax Tao-Rul rolls his eyes. 

"That old man? He's in it up to his _eyebrows_. So is your father. Not that I've met your father… but the entire Council is in the thick of it."

"Not my father," Jor-El disagrees, stung. "Or my mother, or anyone in my _family_."

"Certainly," Rax Tao-Rul drawls, "But it's public knowledge that only the 'right people' ever get invited to the El estates. And the 'right people' don't even always include Pure Line scions, hm?"

Jor-El stares, taken aback by the insinuation. "That… that isn't _true_. My _mother_ is from a second tier House. _I_ was originally going to be matched to-"

"Genetic compatibility," Rax Tao-Rul snorts, "Only with the first or second tier Houses, eh? Thank Rao for gene splicing, or you would've been born with four thumbs or something. Look. Jor, don't get angry. I'm sorry. But you have no idea what life is like," he added quietly, "Outside your palace."

"I'm getting some idea here," Jor-El says wryly, and Rax Tao-Rul laughs. 

"Yeah. I'm surprised that you survived the first Cycle, to be honest."

Jor-El laughs. "Even with you looking out for me?"

"I can't be everywhere," Rax Tao-Rul slaps him on the shoulder. "I heard about that boy who was found at graduation. Poison in the fingernails, eh? Nasty stuff. You've got to be more careful."

"I've already had this lecture, Rax." Dru-Zod had spent the last hour of their final hybrid session before the semester preaching, after all. Jor-El swallowed a sigh. He was going to miss H'Raka. 

As to Dru-Zod… the other boy was somewhere in the Academy. That made enduring another cycle rather more bearable. Hopefully.

"Good! Maybe you should hear it again. Then you'll take it seriously." 

He laughs it off, until the pulse rifle he's assigned during their first ranged practice very nearly explodes in his hands: luckily, Jor-El is an old hand at knowing when tech is about to explode, and the rifle makes for a large fireball as far as he could toss it into the firing range. 

Rax Tao-Rul shoots him a significant look from the line-up, even as his classmates mill around, and still a little startled, he flinches when Faora-Ul touches his elbow. "Are you unhurt?"

"Ah… yes," Jor-El glances over at the twisted wreck, still burning hot from the disruptor breach. "That… that was a, it was tied to the trigger, probably a rewiring of the pulse chamber-"

" _Jor_ ," Faora-Ul snaps, and he stiffens, swallows, and is very nearly himself again by the time An'kka strides over to them.

"Rifle malfunction?" she asks neutrally, and something in her tone makes him nod slowly. "Funny how that's never happened before," An'kka adds, just as flatly, sweeping the rest of the class with a stern glance. "Pick up another rifle, cadet. _Not_ from that rack. This one." 

The new rifle fails to explode, and An'kka nods approvingly. "Now keep up," she instructs, waving him back to the range. 

"It isn't someone in the class," Jor-El whispers to Faora-Ul, as they take aim as they've been taught. He takes a breath, holds, lets it out slowly as he lines up his shot, and his first shot goes a little wide, blasting a hole into the holotarget's shoulder.

"What makes you think that?"

"We were only assigned rifles by random ballot this morning. Everyone's been in the same chambers all day. Besides, the rewiring is complex. These rifles are custom built to be stable for the Military Academy."

"So there's probably more than one person out there trying to kill you," Faora-Ul notes, as she draws a bead on her target, and lands a shot right through its head. "It must be nice to be popular."

Jor-El shudders, and tries hard not to look over his back; his shoulderblades itch, and at his next, unsteady breath, his shot goes wide. It's going to be another very long cycle.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wargames, in Jor-El's opinion, are just stupid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The age of consent in Australia is 16 - I note Ao3's underaged tag runs to 18, but in its policy, it doesn't classify kissing/dating as taggable. So, uh. no smut until I timeskip them both to 18+, but everything else that's T rated might end up in the fic… You've been warned o_o.

XI.

Jor-El hates wargames.

They're in one of the obstacle courses in the Academy, this one with thick foliage and large, impressively artificial trees. He's grateful right now that they're artificial: he's balanced on one of the branches, and real wood probably wouldn't hold his weight. At sixteen cycles old, he's finally hit his growth spurt. He'll probably never be as tall as Dru-Zod, but at least he won't be smaller than Faora-Ul.

He makes his way carefully over the branches to the next tree. This particularly _delightful_ wargame makes up the Cycle-Five final practical examination, and so, instead of going at it in teams, it's one huge hormonal free-for-all, with stun rifles and teenage testosterone. Jor-El wonders whose brilliant idea it was to loose a squad of young cadets on each other and hope for no serious injuries, and internalises a sigh. He's going to have to stay alert.

Given the number of 'accidents' that have happened over the last few cycles, he's fairly sure that another one will probably occur during this 'wargame'. He's lucky that he's yet to be seriously injured, though the last incident had been close - a land mine buried in the vault course, of all things - and as long as it has been, he still has no idea who's behind all the problems. 

He's told his father, but not his mother, not even Nim-El: they don't really need the worry. Dru-Zod is frustrated by the lack of progress, but in any regard, now that Dru-Zod has qualified into the coveted Military Strategy arm of the Guild, he has less time to make his own investigations. 

A noise below makes him look down, and he hunches against the trunk. It's Sur Fal-Ro, one of the third tier House boys, and Jor-El breathes in slowly, takes in a long breath, and waits until Sur Fal-Ro ambles into his line of sight. He fires, and doesn't wait to see if his fellow cadet drops; he's already moving as quietly as he can back over the branches. 

He checks his wristgrid slate only when he's safely away. Sur Fal-Ro's name has dropped gray, and there's just ten of them left. As he watches, another goes gray, and Faora-Ul's body count jumps by one, still comfortably in the lead. Jor-El grins. 

Then there's a movement in the thick leaves up on the higher branches, and he presses himself over the trunk again, breathing in. One of the Houseless boys, the large, quiet one whom was his Cycle-One bunkmate - Lor - is climbing across, looking away to his right. Jor-El hesitates: if he fires, Lor's fall will probably break his bones - but even as he freezes, thinking, Lor glances down and sees him.

Jor-El fires without thinking, and with a cry of shock, Lor topples from the branch. Jor-El drops his rifle and lunges over, gritting his teeth as he grabs at Lor's arm, but he only manages to slow Lor's descent momentarily - then they're _both_ falling. 

Somehow, he manages to twist around so that Lor falls flat on him instead of on the ground, and the impact dazes him, makes him grunt, but at least his bioengineered body doesn't break. Lor groans, blinking and dazed - the shot had hit his shoulder, not enough to count him out, and Jor-El claws himself free, trying to get to his rifle-

Faora-Ul steps on it, levelling her rifle at him. "Sentimental as always, Jor." 

He rolls, and the stun blast blackens the ground even as he tries to get into cover. Faora-Ul tracks him, then she growls and abruptly fires in another direction.

Jor-El risks a peek. Faora-Ul has just tried to slam the butt of her rifle into her opponent - one of the Fourth tier boys, Ulle Wan-Ro, but his speed is incredible: he blurs, sidestepping contemptuously. Jor-El's surprised - Ulle Wan-Ro's _never_ shown such speed in practice; and although Faora-Ul soon discards her rifle and gets in a few punches with a Horu-Kanu kata, the fight's over all too quickly.

Black market speed amp, Jor-El thinks, and looks around for his rifle. It's near the edge of the underbrush, and even as he creeps down, edging towards it, Ulle Wan-Ro calls out, "Jor-El. This Pure Line bitch is your friend, isn't she? Come out. I'm sure you wouldn't want an accident to happen to her pretty face." 

Jor-El risks another peek, and he has to stifle a gasp. Ulle Wan-Ro has a boot shoved over Faora-Ul's chest, and the pulse rifle he has aimed at her is limmed in _blue_ , not green. It's set to kill, while all the rifles that they had been given had been locked at stun.

"I'll give you five seconds," Ulle Wan-Ro growls, even as Faora-Ul shuts her eyes, and grimacing, Jor-El steps out of cover with his hands up.

"Ulle," Jor-El tries. "Ulle, look. The instructors will be coming to stop the simulation any minute now. Do you think that you can get away with this? Stop this. Please."

"I'm not Ulle," Ulle Wan-Ro sneers, raising his rifle to aim at him, "And there's a payday on your head, boy. Well worth dying for." 

His fingers squeeze over the trigger, and Jor-El takes in a breath, waiting for the blast. Maybe he'll try to dodge it. Maybe he can-

It never comes - the assassin had forgotten _Lor_. The Houseless boy charges up with a roar, barrelling into the assassin, and the rifle discharges harmlessly into a tree. Lor's weight dislodges the assassin, and Faora-Ul rolls to her feet with a snarl; all three grapple for the rifle, Lor pinning down the assassin and hobbling his speed amp, Faora-Ul landing precise hammering punches to his pressure points; until she finally wrenches the rifle free.

"Faora-" Jor-El begins, but Faora-Ul's already levelled the rifle at the assassin's face, firing point blank. Lor scrambles away from the twitching body with a choked groan, stumbling to his feet, wild-eyed, and he throws up over at the underbrush, leaning against a tree. 

Pale and stunned, Jor-El's tempted to follow suit. Faora-Ul drops the rifle, grim-faced, and narrows her eyes at him. "What?"

"You _killed_ him."

"He was trying to kill _us_ ," Faora-Ul retorts shortly, kneeling down by the assassin's body, searching it. She rolls up the cadet uniform sleeve, revealing a tiny red pinprick on the underside of his wrist. "Huh. Thought so."

"You just shot him in the _face_ -"

"Get over it, Jor." Faora-Ul straightens up. "Inkorp assassin. Explains the facegraft tech. That's interesting. I thought they were all working over in Solton."

"How would you know what they are?" Jor-El asks blankly, which is of course the point where Trus-Vex and An'kka show up, furious and worried. 

Thankfully, they don't have to go through the whole farce of the practical again: they're placed where they were from before the intervention. The real Ulle Wan-Ro is found dead, his body stashed into the laundry chambers, and all in all, Jor-El thinks tiredly, he is really, really sick of having to look over his shoulder. 

And he truly does _not_ appreciate his friends being used against him: that hasn't happened until now. He's going to find out who is behind this during the break, he resolves. This has to end.

XII.

Faora-Ul looks annoyed when the jumpship docks on the House Ul landing strip, though her expression goes carefully blank when General Hu-Ul strides forward to meet Jor-El.

Hu-Ul is a huge Kryptonian, taller even than Dru-Zod, with massive shoulders: he looks like a small, movable wall, and his thick black beard is streaked with silver. They clasp hands and exchange pleasantries, and the General laughs when Jor-El effusively couches the wargame incident in Faora-Ul's favour. 

"Terrible business, of course," Hu-Ul agrees, "I've put myself on the investigatory committee. If we learn anything, of course House El will be the first to know." 

"Your daughter saved my life - I cannot of good conscience ask your House to do anything else for me." Behind Hu-Ul's back, Faora-Ul glares at him, as though silently willing Jor-El to spontaneously combust. 

"The assassin also attacked my daughter," Hu-Ul points out, with a grin, "You'll forgive me if I would wish to attend to this _personally_. It's unacceptable that such rogue elements are present in our schools. And I had thought that my generation was competitive!"

Eventually, the General wanders off, though not before merrily advising his daughter to escort Jor-El around the premises. House Ul, just like House Zod, is clearly built along military lines: although it does not look quite as forbidding, the angular lines of its defensive structures have not quite been fully subsumed into the few decorative projections and curves set into its spire. The similarities run through even inside the House: House Ul runs towards sobriety, though it does seem to use more bots than soldiers. 

"What do you want?" Faora-Ul demands, when she drags him over to a planarform. It bottlenecks to a door, unlike the sweeping arced entrances of the El planarforms, and seems to have been cut from basalite. 

"I'm pleased to see you too, Faora," Jor-El notes dryly. 

She scowls. "It's only been two klicks since we finished the semester."

"With yourself at the top of the class. Congratulations."

"Stop wasting my time, Jor. What do you want?"

"Look," Jor-El sighs. "About the wargame-"

"You did _not_ save my life," Faora-Ul snaps, her face suddenly suffused with an incandescent fury, as she balls her fists, "He would have killed us all even if you had surrendered! All you did was worsen the situation! You're a fool, Jor-El, a fool who nearly got all of us killed, and you're never, _ever_ to do something like that again!" 

"It seemed as though it would help at the time," Jor-El admits. "But that's not what I wanted to talk to you about-"

"And then you lie to Trus-Vex and An'kka," Faora-Ul snarls, "You lie to my _father_. Even if the vidfeed was corrupted, Lor was there too, he saw everything!" 

"And he didn't contradict me. I didn't lie." All he had done was omit the part where he had stepped out of cover because Faora-Ul had been pinned. He had thought that he would be saving Faora-Ul from certain embarrassment.

"He doesn't contradict anyone! He's soft in the head! As are you!" Faora-Ul is shouting now, "I failed, Jor! I failed when I let him pin me! I've been studying katas all my life and I failed!"

"He had a speed amp," Jor-El blinks, startled by Faora-Ul's fury, "And he was a trained killer and-"

"You shut up," Faora-Ul retorts venomously, "You've done enough damage. I worked _hard_ for that auxlic pin this year, and you've ruined it."

"You _received_ the pin-"

"Only because I ranked first in that wargame!"

"But-"

"And I shouldn't have," Faora-Ul's shoulders slumped. "It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair. I don't deserve the pin, and I received it." 

"You could still earn it," Jor-El ventures, and Faora-Ul's gaze snaps up at him. "That's what I'm here for, Faora. I want to know who paid that Inkorp assassin. I tried doing my own research, but I can't yet crack their firewalls. I want to know who's been trying to kill me."

"It takes you five cycles to finally decide to save your own skin?" Faora-Ul asks sourly, though her temper seems to have melted to a simmer.

"I was content to allow my father and the Academy to handle it before," Jor-El corrects, "But they've gone too far, targeting my friends."

For a moment, he almost expects Faora-Ul to sullenly declare that they aren't friends, but she sighs. "Fine. I've been doing my own investigations, too. My father's password hasn't changed in ten cycles," she adds, when Jor-El arches an eyebrow. "I'll pass you whatever I can dig up." 

"If we work together," Jor-El begins, but Faora-Ul scowls at him.

"We _aren't_ working together. _You_ are a stupid boy, and if feeding you offgrid information will keep you from blundering over to Solton to interview the other Inkorp assassins-"

"Thank you anyway?" Jor-El tries, and Faora-Ul snorts, averts her eyes, and clenches her hands.

"Thank _you_ ," she says stiffly. "For what you did. Even if it was stupid. But I don't owe you, understand? And you don't owe me."

"All right," Jor-El agrees, if only because Faora-Ul's temper is terrifying after all. "I'll keep you updated as well, if I find anything."

"Right." Faora-Ul straightens up. "Well then."

"Weren't you going to take me around the premises?" Jor-El asks, allowing himself a grin.

"Get _out_ , Jor."

XIII.

It takes over a week into his break before Dru-Zod finally has the time to meet, and he still looks harassed and tired when he dismounts. So many cycles, and Dru-Zod still stiffens up when hugged: Jor-El hides a grin against his shoulder.

"I missed you."

"You missed H'Raka," Dru-Zod corrects, though his hands move awkwardly over to rest on the small of his back. H'Raka grunts at the sound of its name, rubbing affectionately against Jor-El's shoulders, with enough force that he feels Dru-Zod shift back a little under their combined weight. 

"I haven't seen you for two months," Jor-El points out, as he breathes in: under the starch and R'Druk's animal stink he can still catch an edge of musk and warm sweat, "While I haven't seen H'Raka for eight. Maybe I do miss him a little more." He rubs his cheek against the stiff fabric of Dru-Zod's jacket, and bites down on a laugh when Dru-Zod somehow manages to tense even further. "Relax. We're alone."

"Still," Dru-Zod mutters, "It is hardly seemly. And you should be more mindful when we actually _are_ in public." 

"Mindful of what?" Jor-El asks, with mock innocence, though he lets go when Dru-Zod gently but firmly disengages from their embrace.

"Mindful of the circumstances," Dru-Zod scowls, "In the _Military_ Academy." 

Jor-El grins. Their last meeting had been by chance - Jor-El had spotted Dru-Zod on his way to the administrative block, probably fresh out of a jumpship from the Ministry of Defence, and had run across half the courtyard to greet him. Taken by surprise, Dru-Zod hadn't managed to sidestep the bear hug in time, and had gone hilariously red-faced. 

"We couldn't hide forever," Jor-El notes, still unrepentant. "Besides, my mother's stopped with her questions about Lara." 

Dru-Zod narrows his eyes slightly - any mention of Lara Lor-Van tends to make him defensive, despite all she's done for them over the last few cycles. "You mean you've found a better cover story?" 

"She guessed that I was really meeting you all this while," Jor-El notes, and laughs when Dru-Zod looks horrified. " _Not_ about the hybrids, though."

"What did she think we were doing all this while, then?"

"What do you think?" Jor-El inquires, and Dru-Zod reddens. Before there's an explosion, Jor-El adds, "She'll like you to come over to the estates sometime."

"Out of the question," Dru-Zod glowers. "Rao knows what will happen if these _rumours_ reach my father's ears."

"So what if he hears about it?"

Dru-Zod eyes him keenly, then he sighs. "Jor, do you not understand the point of pretending that we're strangers? Especially with the political situation as it is?"

"Isn't the Council soon to start brokering a deal with Solton?"

"A deal, yes, but not in favour of the Dreaming City," Dru-Zod mutters, "It's going to be bought in energy rations, and where do you think the quota will be siphoned from? There may be civil unrest once its details are announced. The alliance between our Houses has grown shaky. My father is not in favour of such a deal. Yours is." 

"And this involves us… how?"

"Because," Dru-Zod notes tiredly, "I want you to stay out of this mess, and if my father thinks that you are even remotely attached to me, he will find a way to use it as leverage." 

"Oh." The thought is unfathomably alien to Jor-El: that the sometimes zuurt-trading politics of the Council could run to such an extent. "Little late now," he adds, wryly. "Sorry."

"I told my father that the stunt you pulled in the courtyard was merely due to a dare," Dru-Zod mutters. "Perhaps you should ask one of your friends to corroborate this point, just in case."

"All right." Jor-El eyes Dru-Zod a little uncertainly. "Did you hear about the incident during the wargames?"

"What incident?" 

"Ah." Jor-El blinks. "Um. Never mind. You were busy. It isn't important," he hastily adds, which turns out to be the wrong thing to say: Dru-Zod questions him relentlessly until he tells him everything. 

"Oversoul," Dru-Zod groans. "One of the Inkorp? I'll have to find the time to look into that later today."

"I'm looking into it," Jor-El points out.

"No, you are going to spend your break studying engineering or whatever it is that you do in your off time," Dru-Zod disagrees. "You're mixed up enough in this as it is."

"Make me," Jor-El dares, and laughs when Dru-Zod growls and grabs for him: he dodges, ducking behind H'Raka, and he makes a quick series of whistles. H'Raka extends a wing, blocking Dru-Zod's path, and steps into his way when Dru-Zod tries to circle around. 

" _Jor_ ," Dru-Zod snarls, and the fey mood takes him; he backs away slowly to the rail, still grinning madly. Dru-Zod blinks when at a whistle, H'Raka launches itself up into the air, then he gasps, " _No-_ " as Jor-El scrambles up onto the rail. 

The immensity of the drop is beyond even his enhanced sight to take in - traffic streams far below, in sleek streams of multihued colours and lights. The Dreaming City stretches further than he can see, below, above, beyond, and when he jumps over the rail into the enormity of its embrace, he's a little surprised to find that he's laughing. 

Falling, the sensation of weightlessness is incredible, and for a long moment he feels _free_ , as though everything in his life so far has been inconsequential, that he has never _felt_ alive until now, so great is the adrenaline rush, the pull of the wind through his clothes- 

H'Raka streaks past, wings whirring, and Jor-El gasps as he lands with a jarring impact on the hybrid's back that slams through his knees. He nearly slides off, scrabbling and twisting, but then he _fits_ , seated behind the first set of H'Raka's powerful wing muscles, holding on to the horned spur of its spine as H'Raka takes them up, slowly at first, then in a swoop as Jor-El figures out how to lock his knees over its ribs, hanging on and laughing. H'Raka tilts and dives, in a spinning rush of wind, banking barely before the first stream of traffic and sweeping back up, faster than a jumpship, weaving through a delicate archway between towers and spinning up into the sky, shrilling, until the city stretches miniature and golden around them, to the distant curve of the Severing Sea. 

Jor-El sits back, drinking in the sight, and it's only when H'Raka chirps that he realizes that they aren't alone. R'Druk pulls up beside them, and on its back, Dru-Zod - well. Furious probably doesn't cover it. 

"Get back to the dome," Dru-Zod snaps, and whistles to R'Druk. The hybrid dips, swooping down to the semicircular fan of sand, and with a sigh, some of his joy fading, Jor-El gives H'Raka the same command.

"Dru, I'm sorry, I know I should have asked-" he begins, when he dismounts and approaches Dru-Zod with his palms up, as meekly as he can, and to his shock, Dru-Zod only storms over, fisting his hands in Jor-El's jacket and jerking him close. The hard press of his mouth over Jor-El's is entirely unexpected: confused, Jor-El stiffens, his hands flat on Dru-Zod's shoulders - _oh_. 

He knows what this is. 

A few cycles ago, one of the third tier House boys had managed to sneak an infogrid slate in after their break, and he had somehow managed to access rather… redoubtable forms of vid entertainments. Primal sexual impulse is no longer a driving factor, bred out of the upper Houses' biological makeup almost a century ago or more, but it's still very much present in the very lowest tiers and the Houseless. Jor-El had been mildly fascinated and vaguely repulsed by the vid: he hadn't quite seen the point of most of it, as much as many of the rest of the boys had either found it hilarious or intriguing. 

Now perhaps - now he thinks that he understands. There's a shock of heat between them from this intimacy, a pulse of intoxicating madness, and even as Dru-Zod pulls back with a harsh breath and the start of an apology on his tongue, Jor-El leans up boldly, the press of their lips softer this time, less of a blow, more of a caress. Dru-Zod shudders against him and makes a sound like a strangled sob, and if his hands weren't tight over Jor-El's hips, Jor-El would probably have tried to flinch back in concern. 

"Jor," Dru-Zod breathes harshly, when they part for air, his hands stroking up, his palms pressing tight over Jor-El's cheeks, then sweeping down to his shoulders. "Jor, I-"

"Come on," Jor-El demands, without really knowing what he's demanding, and Dru-Zod shudders again, gently pushing him back a step. 

"Not yet," Dru-Zod growls, and there's something wild in his eyes, as fey as his mood. "But in two cycles you will be mine. You must."

The fierceness in Dru-Zod's voice tugs a smile to his mouth. "The formality's unnecessary. Dru-"

"No. Don't say it," Dru-Zod's grip tightens. "Not yet. You have no right."

"Not yet then," Jor-El agrees soothingly, and under his stroking hands Dru-Zod relaxes a fraction, his hands loosening over Jor-El's shoulders. 

"You drive me to madness," Dru-Zod mutters, "Only you."

"I should say the same."

"No, you-" Dru-Zod exhales harshly, and looks away. When he glances back, he's composed again, if barely: there's still that lovely coiled tension over his shoulders. "See if H'Raka lets you climb on. If so, I'll bring a spare saddle next time."

Jor-El hesitates, unwilling to be distracted, but at the pained look that Dru-Zod shoots him, he ducks his gaze.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Planning and strategy lead to heists.

XIV.

"Oh, _hello_ ," Nim-El purrs, when Faora-Ul stalks out of the Ul jumpship. "Lady Faora-Ul, I presume? My brother's told me _so_ much about you."

Faora-Ul stares at Nim-El, unimpressed, then her gaze swings over to Jor-El. "Rao save us, there really are _two_ of you."

"That isn't a nice thing to say," Nim-El and Jor-El tell her reproachfully, in unison, and grin as she rolls her eyes.

"You are fraternal twins, not identical twins. Grow up."

"Are you staying for dinner?" Nim-El smiles winningly. "Jor, tell me that you invited her to stay for dinner."

"Mother insisted that I ask," Jor-El shrugs. "Faora refused."

" _Oh_ , already on a single-name basis, are we?"

Faora-Ul looks so suddenly disgusted that Nim-El bursts out laughing, and Jor-El mock-shoves him in retaliation. "Really, though, brother," Nim-El adds, "You truly should bring more of your friends home."

"Faora here can easily throw you off this launch strip if she wants to, Nim. This way, please."

Zor-El is waiting in the reception chamber, peeking at them with avid curiosity from behind an archway. He stares openly, then when Jor-El beckons, he approaches cautiously. His thick dark curls only come up to Faora-Ul's waist, but he solemnly stretches out a small hand for her to grasp in greeting. Jor-El isn't sure, but he thinks that Faora-Ul softens a little.

"Faora, this is my youngest brother, Zor-El."

"He seems to be the most well-mannered of all of you," Faora-Ul notes, and Zor-El blushes furiously and sidesteps quickly to Jor-El, clinging to his robes and peering at Faora-Ul from behind him. 

"He can be shy," Nim-El ruffles Zor-El's hair, and Zor-El glares at him.

"'M not shy," he retorts evenly, batting at Nim-El's hand. "Mum wants a word," Zor-El adds, before looking back over to Faora-Ul, again with childish curiosity. "Have you held a gun?"

"I _am_ in the Military Guild," Faora-Ul points out.

"Have you killed anyone before?"

" _Zor_ ," Jor-El cuts in reproachfully, but Zor-El merely pushes out his lower lip in defiance. Jor-El internalises a sigh. One problem of having to live in residence in the Military Guild meant that Nim-El, with his far more flexible living arrangements, had been a more or less unfettered influence on Zor-El over the last few cycles. 

"Once," Faora-Ul replies neutrally.

"Oh." Zor-El's little brow furrows furiously, even as Nim-El blinks and Jor-El tries glaring at Faora-Ul. His brother is still a _child_. "Was it necessary?"

"At the time, yes."

"He was a bad person?"

"Faora, I really don't think-" Jor-El begins, but Faora-Ul continues talking as though he isn't there.

"Yes. Sometimes people deserve it."

"All right," Jor-El frowns, "That's enough of this. Zor, go to Mother."

"I don't want to," Zor-El's grip tightens on his robes. "You don't bring people over, ever. Other than Lara. I wanted to see if your new friend is like Lara."

Faora-Ul couldn't be less like Lara Lor-Van if she tried, and startled, Jor-El badly stifles a laugh: Faora-Ul snorts, even as Nim-El, thankfully, finally attempts to exercise some damage control and scoops Zor-El firmly up despite his squawk of indignation. 

They obligingly head over to the drawing room to endure refreshments and Nimda An-Dor's gentle curiosity. Through it all, Faora-Ul actually manages not to look pained, and Jor-El's grateful enough that he's quite forgiven her for her over-blunt response to an innocent boy's questions by the time they're allowed to leave.

"Your brother," Faora-Ul hisses at Jor-El, when they're finally alone in the laboratory of his personal chambers at House El, "Is _just_ like you, except worse."

"Well," Jor-El says innocently, "Zor-El is only six cycles old. I would not be so harsh."

"You know whom I'm referring to," Faora-Ul growls. Nim-El had been flirtatious throughout refreshments, even despite their mother's presence. Sometimes his brother truly has no shame. 

"It's my parents' opinion that Nim might be more stable with a bond-mate," Jor-El conceded, "But he's steadfastly refused to get bonded when he was of age. He does still bring friends about, though." 

Part of Nim-El's refusal, Jor-El had always felt, had been the deep-seated horror and fright that Nim-El had suffered when Jor-El had been called that very first time to House Zod. His brother had clung to him when he had returned, and that one childhood moment seemed to have soured Nim-El to bonding forever. It was a pity. 

"Have _you_ never brought a friend home before?"

"Not from the Military Guild," Jor-El points out. "My family's curious, that is all."

"This is a bad idea," Faora-Ul mutters. "We should have done this from my place." 

"You were the one worried about what your father might think."

"And what will your parents think?"

Jor-El shrugs. "As I've mentioned, my brother brings his Architecture Guild friends over to visit all the time. My mother's just relieved that I'm not going to be shut in alone today with my bots and experiments." 

"You are a strange boy," Faora-Ul decides, with a frown, as she perches on a chair. "What did you get?"

"There's been a trade embargo between Solton and the Dreaming City for cycles," Jor-El types into the tesseglyph console and brings up a visual map of their part of the hemisphere, with the gigantic sprawl of the Dreaming City on one side of the Severing Sea, and Solton past the Stormmouth river further along the shoreline, along with the rest of the Oorn-Zone states in the shadow of the Oorn Spine mountains. "Normally not a problem for Inkorp-"

"Because they have contact drops in every city," Faora-Ul notes impatiently, "Yes, I told you this. What is _new_?"

"The Council's managed to bully all the other Oorn-Zone states into submission, all except Raiston," Jor-El gestures, and the miniature model of Raiston highlights in a pale blue. "Resources can still get into Solton through Raiston. I managed to hack into the Solton Banking Corporation and got one of my new AIs to spend a few klicks sifting through all the transactions made over the last few months. It's also been scanning all the watchline feeds for interesting imports." 

"Five klicks before the wargame," Jor-El brings up a holographic list on the infogrid array, "There was one large transaction of energy credits from Raiston Mercantile Bank to the Solton Banking Corp." The record in question highlights itself as he speaks. "I've traced it through several shell operations scattered around the Oorn-Zone states. Whoever made the initial payment made it from a Capita account. Right here in the Dreaming City." 

"And?"

"And what?"

"And who was it?" Faora-Ul growls. 

"I don't know yet. That's why I called you here. The Capita building cannot be hacked. There's a null zone around it, designed by my grandfather. No incoming links - so, no potential security breaches. Data gets manually packed on random external link drones with only short link commsets, and data inquiries can only be made within the building itself. The outgoing datastream is fragmented and sent in random pockets from random drones, designed to prevent hacking. Again, my grandfather's design."

"Somehow I'm beginning to get the sense that you're about to say something very stupid."

"Therefore," Jor-El continues, a little hurt, "The only way we can find out who was on the end of that income trail is to get into the Capita building and access one of its localised datagrid arrays."

Faora-Ul pinches at the bridge of her nose. "Here it comes. Jor, it has been… interesting… learning about all this, but if you _think_ that I'm going to help you _break into_ the Capita building-"

"Well," Jor-El hedges, "Not break into, exactly."

" _Not exactly?_ How do you 'not exactly' break into a bank?"

"I just need you to create a distraction. It'll be absolutely legitimate and I'll even give you the means with which to do it."

He talks a little more, and at the end, Faora-Ul crosses her arms over her chest. "You're insane."

Jor-El grins. "Maybe."

"What makes you think that I'll give that back?"

"I'm not expecting you to," Jor-El points out, "Otherwise, it'll draw suspicion."

"And your family is… on board with all that?"

"It's mine to deal with."

"You're insane," Faora-Ul repeats, "But this will probably work. Still," she adds, with a suspicious glance, "Why me? Why not your brother? Or that bond-mate of yours?"

"Nim can't act to save his life," Jor-El points out glibly, "And as to Dru… subtlety… isn't his strong suit. Besides, he's busy with-"

"You mean," Faora-Ul drawls, "You _haven't_ told him. That should be a fun conversation, if he ever finds out. Dru-Zod has a considerable reputation in the Academy for, ah, _intensity_."

"Hopefully, if he ever does find out, it'll be… sometime after the fact." Jor-El says, as confidently as he can. He has to admit that he isn't looking forward to said conversation, if it ever happens. 

"And how are _you_ going to get into the Capita building? Your face is _only_ instantly recognisable over, hm, _all_ of Krypton? And most of the building is a no-fly zone, if you recall." 

"People often look at clothes, not so much at the face," Jor-El points out. "I'll take precautions. All I need," he says persuasively, "Is for you to create a distraction for three hours. More, if possible. I can deal with the rest." Or so he hopes.

"Three _hours_?" Faora-Ul's eyebrows arch. "Oversoul, you aren't asking for much, are you?" 

"I'm sure that it's well within your capabilities, Faora."

"And I'm still not convinced," Faora-Ul glares at the infogrid, "Why you want me to do this."

"Because I do have friends who will help me if I ask," Jor-El says reasonably - Lara Lor-Van, for one, "But no one gets that angry about a class grade, not even you: you've worked hard _every_ cycle, and you've never been too upset whenever you haven't earned auxlic pins. And," he adds, when Faora-Ul swings her glare over to him, "No one learns Horu-Kanu just for fun. It's a very specialised martial arts form, focusing on levelling the playing field with amped or artificially stronger opponents. You've run into Inkorp assassins before. Your mother's passing-"

"Careful," Faora-Ul hisses, her face going tight. "Careful what you say next, Jor."

Jor-El inclines his head. He's said what he has to. "I felt that you had more cause than most to want to get to the bottom of this." 

"… fine," Faora-Ul mutters, after thinking it over for a few moments, and Jor-El lets out a breath that he hasn't realized that he's been holding. "When do you want this to be done?"

"I'll let you know. I'm still working on a few details."

Faora-Ul's lip curls, and her hands drop to clutch at the edge of her seat. "You're not giving me what you are just for a distraction, are you? You know what I'll do with it."

"I know. I think that it'll be a good investment on my part. And at the end, if you help me with this - when you take on Inkorp, I'll help you."

"I think that you have enough enemies for now, Jor," Faora-Ul drawls, though she smiles faintly and sharply as she slips off her seat. "Call me when you're ready."

XV.

Surprisingly, Dru-Zod now has to be patiently coaxed into any sort of intimacy, even a hug: he just either sidesteps or uses his greater reach to hold Jor-El firmly away. Jor-El tries not to pout, but it's hard to feel upset for long when flying, and even as they go through a few simple mid-air moves together, he's laughing again, strapped into the saddle, joyful as they spin up to surge through the clouds.

Dru-Zod seems preoccupied, even with the amazing view around them, and when they finally land and dismount, Jor-El asks, "What's wrong, Dru?"

"Now that you can fly H'Raka," Dru-Zod says quietly, "Perhaps we do not have to meet so often."

Shocked, Jor-El stares, wide-eyed, and Dru-Zod continues, looking away, "I have less time to spare than I used to."

"Is this about before?" Jor-El demands, suspicious.

"No-"

"You are a _terrible_ liar." Jor-El advances, and Dru-Zod - a little hilariously - actually circles back. A tactical mistake - Jor-El whistles, and H'Raka promptly knocks Dru-Zod's feet out from under him with a flick of its tail. 

Before Dru-Zod can scramble back to his feet, Jor-El darts over, straddling his waist and leaning over to kiss him; he gets teeth and a growl but he tries again, his hands stroking over the stiff fabric of Dru-Zod's jacket, and then again until big hands clutch at his shoulders, bearing him down. 

Jor-El tries not to grin; he licks against Dru-Zod instead, dipping into the line of his mouth, and Dru-Zod makes a strangled sound, parting his lips. Their tongues meet, and it's sloppy and wet and Jor-El can't get a handle on how he's meant to breathe; Dru-Zod's trembling under his hands and this is perfect, so perfect. 

"Where did you-" Dru-Zod rasps, catching Jor-El's lower lip with his teeth and tugging experimentally, then licking over it when Jor-El shivers and whines. "Where did you learn that?"

"I've been thinking about it," Jor-El confides, and he presses his grin over the sharp incline of Dru-Zod's jaw. "And I did some research."

"You did _not_ ," Dru-Zod protests, horrified as he jerks Jor-El up to stare at him, and Jor-El starts to laugh; he laughs until Dru-Zod drags him down for a biting kiss that only ends when both their lips are tender.

"Theoretically speaking-"

" _Silence_ ," Dru-Zod growls, though he marks his words with a brushing kiss, "We've courted enough heresy, I forbid you from conducting further 'research'." 

"Where did _you_ learn about this, then?" 

"I _was_ in the Academy," Dru-Zod notes dryly, "And cadets always smuggle the same sort of contraband."

"The vid I saw," Jor-El admits, "In the barracks… was rather detailed. I never knew that some body parts were meant to fit where they did. And the part where one of the male participants took the stock of a blaster and-"

Hilariously, Dru-Zod reddens and sputters. " _Which_ cadet brought that in?" he growls, and for a moment he looks murderous.

"I've forgotten," Jor-El declares, just in case Dru-Zod gets it into his head to quietly dispose of one of his classmates or something equally horrible, "Dru, I'm no longer a child. If _you_ could see pre-evolutionary-"

" _Quiet_ ," Dru-Zod glowers at him, "Stop talking, just _stop_ , you talk too much, and the more you talk, the more I just want to…" he cuts himself off, with a very impressive scowl, and Jor-El grins as he kisses the edge of it, licks until Dru-Zod gets a hand over the nape of his neck, warm and roughened from handling rifles. He squirms a little, but Dru-Zod's free hand snaps to his hip, holding him still. 

"Do you really think that I only want to see you because of H'Raka?" Jor-El settles for leaning his weight on his hands, pressed over the sharp line of Dru-Zod's shoulders. "Because if you do, I _will_ shake you." 

Dru-Zod's lips curl, and there's no mirth in his smile. "If our parents hadn't needed this alliance, would I ever have known you? Like this?"

"If the alliance wasn't needed, my parents were going to select my bond-mate through an algorithm. It wouldn't-"

"Leaving that aside," Dru-Zod interrupts, "Had we met elsewhere in life, would we have meant anything to each other?"

"If I talk too much, I feel that you think too much," Jor-El rests their foreheads together. Their noses bump, and it's deliciously intimate, even like this. "Of course we would. Somewhere out there, a million parallel Jor-Els are driving a million parallel Dru-Zods to madness." 

Dru-Zod snorts, and tugs, rolling Jor-El down onto his back over the sand, leaning up in turn onto an elbow to study him, batting away Jor-El's hands as he tries to get them around Dru-Zod's neck. 

"What?" Jor-El asks, laughing, when Dru-Zod's scrutiny goes on in silence. "Dru."

"You are so-" Dru-Zod swallows, and leans over instead, to mouth over his jaw to the curve of his neck. It tickles, and Jor-El squirms and shoves at Dru-Zod's shoulders. Dru-Zod shifts up to kiss him instead, slow this time, sweet, a thumb stroking up Jor-El's cheekbone.

"Yes?" 

"What?"

"I am so…?" Jor-El prompts, with an impish grin.

"You are so beautiful," Dru-Zod concedes gruffly, as though the words are torn from him; he ducks his head, but Jor-El tilts his chin back up. 

"Only the best bioengineering money and influence can buy," Jor-El reminds him wryly, though warmth blossoms bright in his chest and makes him smile tentatively.

"I wasn't referring to what you look like," Dru-Zod retorts irritably, then he smirks. "Though it helps me endure all that chatter." 

Jor-El shoves at Dru-Zod, and they end up growling and wrestling on the sand until there's sand everywhere, even down their boots, and when he looks up, R'Druk and H'Raka have curled up, dozing. Dru-Zod squirms free, getting a bottle of water from R'Druk's bags and tossing it to Jor-El, but when he sits down next to Jor-El he yelps as the water splashes over his head.

"Jor!"

"You had sand on your face," Jor-El says innocently, and manages to kick away from a grab, bottle still in hand as he makes a run for it over the sand. Dru-Zod tackles him before he gets too far, jerking the bottle out of his grasp and upending it over his face; he laughs, gasping, at the shock of cold water, then Dru-Zod's mouth seals back over his and he pulls them both back down to the sand.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Jor-El's opinion, it's not a heist if they're only borrowing information.

XVI.

"This is never going to work," Faora-Ul tells him, when she finds out about the second half of his plan.

"We only have a few klicks more before we have to return to the Academy for the next semester. It's now or never." 

"You are _Jor-El_ from the House of _El_. You'll _never_ pass as a servitor!"

"I've been studying a few vidfeeds of-"

"Rao save us," Faora-Ul interrupts, rolling her eyes, "You've been _studying_. That's enough to fool Capita security, is it?"

"On a scale of probabilities-"

She exhales irritably. "I suppose," she mutters, "That if you do get caught, and I am expressing this as a near certainty - your family is probably rich and influential enough to bail you out of prison into house arrest."

"Your faith in me is duly noted, Faora."

"Besides, surely there is already an established servitor company that handles the Capita building."

"There is."

"How are you going to insinuate yourself into it? Fake your credentials as a servitor?" Faora-Ul's tone drips sarcasm. 

Jor-El shrugs. "I bought the company." 

Faora-Ul's eyebrows shoot up, then she groans. "Do I want to know how you explained that to your parents?"

"Not particularly." The truth was rather more mundane that Faora-Ul would think: Seyg-El had always been very supportive of his sons' ventures, including business, and the servitor company had been turning an annual profit. Still, Faora-Ul was looking unsettled enough; Jor-El sensed that it would be wise to move on quickly. 

"I've studied the servitor company's records. They send in a technician once every few cycles. I'll put myself on the roster for the next cycle. They have detailed instructions on file - I should be able to manage the servitor check and still have time to complete my download."

"If this works," Faora-Ul mutters, "I will be resoundingly surprised."

"Oh, you of little faith," Jor-El tells her, with mock sadness, and gets punched in the arm. 

He's a little less confident on the day itself. Faora-Ul's patched in to him through a short wave comm-link, subdermal, designed to pass undetected through a bodyscan, and when she murmurs, "I'm going in," he nearly jumps. 

"Good luck," he tells her. He's piloting a compact servoship, utilitarian and barely functional by his standards, slow and sturdy as it navigates traffic. The tiny ship reeks of disinfectant, and his uniform - carefully aged, just in case - feels unpleasantly coarse compared to the fabrics that he's used to. He puts the discomfort at the back of his mind, as he waits patiently in line to be carded through the service side of the Capita building.

"I'm not the one who needs it," Faora-Ul retorts, and as much as she's complained about this mission all the way, she sounds tense, excited. "By the Oversoul. I feel more exposed than when I was in a wargame."

"You were wearing persteel in the wargame," Jor-El reminds her, amused at the thought. Faora-Ul is dressed as a lady socialite for today, out of necessity, in arco-furs and rusgown silk with a plunging sip from the nape of her neck that shows off the sleek line of her back: he had very almost complimented her but for the murderous gleam in her eyes when he had looked her over. 

It's his turn at the gate check, and he scans his employee pass at the gate. There's a pause while he holds his breath, then a friendly beep, and he's been greenlighted a landing bay. He breathes out, taking down the ship. "I'm through the gate check."

"Then I will proceed." He can hear the faint clicking of Faora-Ul's heels on the styxite floors, as she moves purposefully into the main foyer of the bank. Jor-El keeps his head down as he picks up his bag of gear and gets out of the servoship. 

He's never been this far away from the sun before, he thinks, and then he has to hide a grin. The Capita building's EAST-THREE service entrance sits on a landing bay that just skirts the divspace between Strata 01 and 02: if he goes to the edge and looks down, he'll probably be able to see the ground on Strata 00 for the first time in his life. 

He resists the temptation, taking in a slow breath instead as he heads to the glass entrance. He fits his bag through the scanset slot and runs his card over the sensorplate. The fraction of the second that the sensorplate takes to read his card makes him hold his breath: it's far more specialised than the gate check - and when it beeps green, he breathes out again.

He's in.

He keeps his head down,thankful for the employee servohelm and its semi opaque sensory visor. As he had thought, no one in the servo-level floors give him so much as a passing glance, even the guards: here, his scratchy, dull yellow uniform is as good a disguise as anything that technology can conjure.

As he follows the floor route that he had memorized, Jor-El tries not to tense as he hears Faora-Ul walk to a stop. "You," she says imperiously. "I am Faora-Ul of House Ul. I wish to make a deposit. Get Severan Sov-Tam."

Distantly, Jor-El listens to the retainer stammer out that Severan Sov-Tam is otherwise engaged, and does the Lady have an appointment, etc. Ice bucks into Faora-Ul's tone. "There are two other major banks in the Dreaming City. Should I take my business elsewhere?"

Cowed, the retainer scuttles away, and Jor-El lets out a soft laugh as he scans his employee card at a jaunt shuttle's door scanner. "Impressive."

"Stay focused," Faora-Ul shoots back in a harsh whisper. "No irrelevant comm chatter."

The jaunt shuttle scanner beeps, and with a pneumatic whistle of air, the gleaming axsteel doors slide open, allowing him to step into the cylinder pod. He presses the number for the array chambers and waits as the doors slip closed. His hands feel clammy, his heart pounding in his chest, and he hasn't even started. Closing his eyes briefly, he reaches for calm, as An'kka taught them, cycles ago, and when the doors open, his heart rate is stable again, his mind clear.

The retainer's respectfully soft, "This way," to Faora-Ul in his ears doesn't even make him jump. He threads his way through the stream of purposeful guards, retainers and bots, measuring his tread to Faora-Ul's. The moment of access needs to be balanced with exquisite care. 

They can't communicate verbally beyond this point: it'll all depend on how well Jor-El can read Faora-Ul's movements and cues. He drags his feet as much as he can without it looking obvious, as he listens to Faora-Ul get carded through to the far more lavish priority jaunt shuttle, heading for the top floor of the Capita building. Her footsteps grow muffled - she's probably stepping through kerrafur carpets now, according to the building plans - and Jor-El times his walk to coincide with the entrance to the secured quadrant of the array chamber level.

The guard at the doublesealed bauxlite door doesn't even glance twice at his card, pressing his palm to the door sensor instead and waving him through. As he had thought, the Capita building hasn't been seriously robbed in over a century, and that sort of confidence builds neglect. 

It's up to Faora-Ul now, at this point. He goes to the same terminal that the servitors always access, and inputs his employee daypass code, just as he hears a slightly querulous voice greet Faora-Ul. "Ah, my dear-"

"Severan Sov-Tam," Faora-Ul interrupts, her tone sharp. "Greetings." Her tone is curt, and Severan Sov-Tam's voice instantly becomes more polite.

"I must say, this is an… irregular visit, Faora-Ul. You see, I was, ah, in the middle of a very important business meeting. Your father and I have been friends for a very long time, so I was happy to make this concession, but you must understand, our business must be brief. If-"

"If so," Faora-Ul says shortly, "I can go to Raxa or Portico."

"Now, milady, that is rather harsh," Severan Sov-Tam says genially, not cowed in the least - Sov-Tam is a second tier House that's reputedly at least as wealthy as House Ur, if quietly so. Generations of bred interest in finance has reaped certain benefits. Sov-Tam can afford to offend a first Tier scion, especially one that is still a heir.

"I have a hundred million energy credits," Faora-Ul states just as curtly. "I need a secure investment account with a competitive rate of interest. I came to your bank first _because_ you are a friend of my father. At present, I am uncertain whether I have been treated as the daughter of a friend, Severan Sov-Tam."

"A hundred _million_ -" Severan Sov-Tam's breath catches, even as Jor-El starts to run firstline diagnostics alongside dropping in the final lines of code for his parasite program. "Milady, my apologies, but… procedures, you understand. I will have to take some precautions." 

Severan Sov-Tam's voice has only the faintest of hitches. A hundred million credits is a huge investment, especially in the current energy-locked state that the Dreaming City is in: it's a crazy amount of credits for most Houses. It's put an extremely noticeable dent on Jor-El's personal finances: he's had to make a series of rather improbable explanations to his parents in order to make the withdrawal. 

With a hundred million credits, a determined Kryptonian could fund a private war single-handedly against entire cities, let alone the Inkorp.

"You understand also," Faora-Ul adds coldly, "If I will need the utmost secrecy in this matter." 

"Of course. You have my word that not a breath of this will leave this chamber."

There is a rustle of clothes, and Faora-Ul is probably handing Severan Sov-Tam the promissory vaultsec, DNA-locked. Severan Sov-Tam's famous composure doesn't quite hold up: he sucks in a soft gasp, probably at the sight of the vaultsec's case, embossed with the seal of the House of El. 

Faora-Ul taps her nails against the bangles at her arms lightly, the double-click a sign for Jor-El to input the final line of code. The parasite program latches on as Severan Sov-Tam opens access to the system, and Jor-El slowly lets out a breath as the program neatly clones Severan Sov-Tam's priority access, running a few tentative test procedures. 

No alarms tripped. So far, so good. Jor-El inputs another few lines of code, instructing the program to begin data mining. He takes his time with the local diagnostic. There's little else that he can do now except help the program run interference if it needs it.

"It… it is all in order." Severan Sov-Tam's tone is only barely professionally neutral, Jor-El senses, even for an old financier. "My word."

"Jor-El is a friend." Faora-Ul begins, then hesitates artfully, rather to Jor-El's surprise. "We met in the Military Academy."

"I did hear that you were both in the same intake."

"Perhaps you heard also that there have been several attempts made on his life over the cycles?" 

Severan Sov-Tam sighs. "Word does come around. There have been many… desperate and redoubtable characters around the Dreaming City, particularly since the energy strictures have been tightening. His father, Seyg-El, is growing increasingly unpopular. It is only by the grace of Rao that his twin brother has not been similarly targeted."

Faora-Ul snorts. "His brothers are malleable. Seyg-El has also been subject to attempts on his life - as have all the other Council members. It is my father's opinion that Jor-El is also targeted because should he ascend to his father's seat, he will share his father's politics, while his brothers can be… persuaded."

"Council ascension is hardly a birthright."

"The House of El," Faora-Ul points out dryly, "Has had a member on the Council ever since its inception, Severan Sov-Tam."

"A coincidence." There is a thread of wry humour behind Severan Sov-Tam's voice, however. Jor-El checks the feed, absently. The download of the current cycle's onboard records is proceeding at a good clip. "So you share House El's views? That surprises me."

"Not I. But I do share a mutual dislike of being targeted by assassins," Faora-Ul notes, her tone flat. "An assassin tried to kill Jor-El and myself during the last wargame. The gesture was… not appreciated."

"Then this venture-" 

"Jor-El has the funds, I have the experience." 

"My dear child," Severan Sov-Tam sighs. "Is this about your mother?"

The question surprises Jor-El so much that he freezes slightly. Faora-Ul had vaguely mentioned that her family knew Severan Sov-Tam, but then again, all of the Pure Line houses knew House Sov-Tam: interrelations ran for centuries among the Pure Line and second tier Houses, after all. 

"What if it is?"

"Then I cannot out of conscience accept these credits into my bank," Severan Sov-Tam says firmly, to Jor-El's horror. There's a rush of fabric, then Severan Sov-Tam sighs. "Faora-Ul, let go."

Jor-El relaxes slightly, though he stays poised to terminate the program and extract what they have at any signal. 

"Severan-"

"I understand that you qualified for the Military Academy. But a hundred million credits - do you intend to fund a _war_ , Faora? Can you imagine what a private war would do to the Dreaming City? We sit on a rumbling volcano, about to implode at any minutes - you wish to stir its flames? Just for vengeance? Your mother was my friend, Faora. For her sake, let this go."

"Not a war," Faora-Ul disagrees stiffly. "An inquiry. I want to know who tried to have us killed. There have been several attempts on Jor-El's life over the cycles, and I'm as tired of it as he is. The Council has not been effective. We want it to stop - before it actually hurts anyone we care about."

"An inquiry," Severan Sov-Tam notes skeptically, "That requires so many energy credits?"

"Ah, well," There's a touch of humour in Faora-Ul's tone, "I did mention that I would be interested in a _competitive_ rate of interest, did I not? The funds are currently lodged in Portico, after all." 

"It is still rather irregular-"

"Which is why I came to you," Faora-Ul says persuasively. "You are a friend of my family. We have a series of very… unusual requests on these funds. Not only the interest rate. I need to know," she adds, and there's the sounds of two sets of footsteps moving - Faora-Ul drawing Severan Sov-Tam away from the console, perhaps, clever, "Whether your bank truly has a no-questions-asked policy."

"Your father will not approve of this," Severan Sov-Tam points out stiffly. "And I cannot of good conscience-"

"I _need_ this, old friend," Faora-Ul cuts in. "We are so close to an answer. We think that we have a few good leads. Jor-El's hands are tied in Portico due to his father's influence, and _my_ father must not learn of this account. Can you help us?"

Severan Sov-Tam sighs deeply. "Perhaps if you tell me what else that giving you this account will entail, Faora."

It feels like an eternity, but Faora-Ul is a virtuoso for all of it. She has studied for this role, Jor-El thinks: her questions are precise, but require complex answers that spawn even more precise questions. He's fascinated to the point that he nearly misses it when the program has finished its download. He slots a memchip into the array and waits until the data pack is onboard, then he slips it into his sleeve and clears his throat.

Faora-Ul immediately switches to her closing spiel. The funds are transferred to Severan Sov-Tam's keeping in Capita, and Jor-El waits impatiently until he hears the double tap that instructs him to begin wiping the program and covering his tracks.

On the way out, the guard mentions, "Took your time," and he nearly freezes up: only the clean mental discipline that he's maintained since the jaunt anchors him in place. 

"First time out of a simulation," he replies, as bashfully as he can, and the guard snorts, waving him on. He manages not to breathe in a sigh of relief, walking purposefully but not quickly to the jaunt, and then further out until the exit and they've _done_ it. They've done it. 

"I'm out," he whispers to Faora-Ul, once the servoship clears the gate. 

"Same," she replies, and adds, severely, "We are _not_ doing that _ever_ again."

"Oh, I don't know," Jor-El laughs, adrenaline still a rush in his veins, "It was fun." 

She curses him fairly creatively for five minutes, and he's in a good mood as he returns the servoship to the company bay, ducking into a cab and instructing it to take him to one of the House Ul properties, where his robes are. 

Faora-Ul is already waiting within it. It's a storage silo on the eastern side of the Dreaming City, technically, but there's a functional array in the foreman's office, and Faora-Ul has already dismissed the usual crew from the site for today. Jor-El ducks into a room to change back to his robes with relief, and returns to the foreman's office to find Faora-Ul pacing impatiently.

She hovers over his shoulder as he inserts the memchip into the array, setting up security precautions and isolating the array from the infogrid. The data pack's encrypted, naturally, but puzzles have always been a natural joy for Jor-El, and it takes him only a quarter of a klick to crack the codes. 

Faora-Ul uncurls from a Horu-Kanu kata as he lets out an exhalation of triumph. "Finished?"

"Finished. I'm accessing the source transfer now. There are vidpacks encrypted along with the information, that's why I needed three hours for the entire cycle's data pack. Here." He inputs a few quick commands into the array. "This is it. I'm bringing up the vid. This is the client who initiated the transfer, according to the timestamp and the seal."

The adjoining tesseglyph console next to the array comes to life, rebuilding itself into a gleaming metallic miniature replica of Severam Sov-Tam's office. Severam Sov-Tam can be seen walking forward from his infogrid array, arm extended, as the basalite door to his office swings open.

Ter-Zod walks through, clasping Severam Sov-Tam's hand, patting it. As Jor-El lets out a harsh gasp, they head over to the array to arrange for the transfer of credits that would eventually, at its end, reach Solton and the Inkorp. Jor-El stares, pale and uncomprehending, and just as he thinks that it can't get worse, behind Ter-Zod, _Dru-Zod_ strides into the chamber, closing the basalite doors behind him, and falls into parade rest.

This is what it feels like, Jor-El finds himself thinking dimly, when your mind feels like it should shatter but can't.

"Well," Faora-Ul breathes. "Well, well."

"This can't be right," Jor-El checks the data pack again, frantically. On the tesseglyph console, sound cuts in, but it's only Ter-Zod, instructing Severam Sov-Tam about the amount and shell corporation destination of the transfer, nothing else. "Maybe the vid was switched-" 

"And that digital seal on the transfer was also switched? It was an 'inside job'? Someone wishes to frame House Zod, enough to fabricate a voice ID print on those instructions that we just heard?" Faora-Ul's voice is hard. "I'm going to have to inform my father of this."

" _No_ ," Jor-El says quickly. "There's a mistake. I'm sure that I made a mistake. Why would Ter-Zod want to kill me, Faora? What would he have to gain?"

"He's at odds with your father."

"But only _recently_. Why place me in the Military Academy, where I would have to learn how to defend myself?"

"So he was only one of several people who want to kill you. Maybe all the previous attempts were from other people. But he _was_ the one who violated a standing Council edict and employed Inkorp in the Dreaming City's confines," Faora-Ul growls. "He was the one who _tried to kill us both_ during the wargame. Maybe he only decided to get rid of you recently. Who cares? And as to your bond-mate…"

"He can't have known, I know he can't have known," Jor-El snaps fiercely, "If he wanted me dead, I would be dead several times over! We meet in-"

"Private?" Faora-Ul asks mockingly. "Did you think that meeting at the same space for so many cycles would go without notice, when your jumpship is so recognisable? There have been rumours circulating for _cycles_ , Jor. You were safe enough alone with Dru-Zod. He'll be the prime suspect if you went conveniently missing after your trysts."

"I don't believe it. I won't."

"Then you will die," Faora-Ul snaps contemptuously. "If you want to hide your head under the sand, fine. But this is also my war, now. And if I have to go forward alone, all the better."


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The problem with keeping a secret is that eventually, it attracts more and more secrets, until it buries you.

XVII.

The only reason why he doesn't talk to Dru-Zod, Jor-El tells himself, is because Dru-Zod doesn't have time to meet him in the few klicks before the next semester. It's why he planned the heist to happen when it did: he's never been very good at keeping secrets from Dru-Zod under direct questioning.

Faora-Ul avoids him as much as she can for the first few klicks, then she finally drags him aside when the rec room is quiet. They're in their penultimate year in the Academy, and at her glare, the other, less senior cadets leave the vicinity quietly.

"You are a disgrace," she begins by telling him flatly. "If you eat so little you cannot fight."

"We have only one combat class this cycle." He's rather more confident with explosives and - finally - a tech class, even if it's about basic situational tech and hacking. 

Faora-Ul lets out an irritated breath. "Look, Jor. I'm sorry about how this turned out," she lowers her voice, "And I'm certain that you've checked and double-checked your data, which is why you are still moping like a s'tkar andoswain instead of proclaiming _his_ innocence from the mountaintops. Life deals blows. Get up and move on."

"But-"

"Did you talk to Dru-Zod?"

Jor-El drops his gaze. "No."

"Good." Faora-Ul eyes him with uncharacteristic uncertainty, then she claps at his shoulder. "Just… try not to think about it for a time. We're both stuck in the Academy for another cycle. Think of it as a break."

"Filled with other assassination attempts," Jor-El notes dryly.

Faora-Ul shrugs. "Then get better at countering them. You wanted to get into the Military's research wing. You know that you have to excel in this cycle."

"It does not seem so impor-"

"It _is_ ," Faora-Ul snaps forcefully. "Besides, if you act like this, you'll warn our enemies that something is wrong."

"He is _not_ my enemy!" Not Dru-Zod. 

"Perhaps not," Faora-Ul retorts, "But his father is, and there's still a cycle more before you will be irreparably linked to his only heir. If that's his motive, I think he'll grow more confident rather than less. And it's a good indication," she concedes, "That Dru-Zod is not involved, at least not to his knowledge. Otherwise, he need simply agree to break the promissory. It is not unusual."

_I haven't asked for anything in return. Not until now_ , Jor-El recalls a slip of dialogue, from so many cycles ago, and bites down on his lower lip. Ter-Zod is Dru-Zod's father, after all, stilted as their relationship seems to be. If rumours seemingly abounded about their meetings, he rather doubted that a few flimsy cover stories about dares would have been enough to avert his suspicions. 

In a way, they've done this to themselves. Not the other assassination attempts, perhaps - or not all of them. But the last one… their combined stubbornness had backed the notoriously mercurial Ter-Zod into a corner. Dru-Zod had sensed that there was something wrong - little else would explain his anxiety during their first kiss, that possessiveness. Reluctantly, Jor-El relaxes, even if the cold weight in his belly starts to slip. 

Faora-Ul is studying his face closely: she snorts and rolls her eyes. "Suddenly, I am grateful that my father never sought to pair me up."

"You're his only heir."

"He trusts me to use my own discretion when I am of age." Faora-Ul shrugs. "Look at you. You're being heartsick and pathetic, when your life is still in danger. It's a weakness." 

"Faora-"

"And may I remind you," she continues flatly, "That Inkorp assassins have no moral compunctions about murdering our entire squad to get to you if they have to. So get over yourself. If not for your sake, then for everyone else. Most of our squad will still be useless in a real fight." 

Reluctantly, Jor-El sighs. "You're right."

"Of course I'm right." Faora-Ul glowers at him.

"What happened to it being 'so much the better' if you carry on by yourself?" he adds, with a faint touch of attempted amusement. 

She grimaces. "My father," she mutters stiffly, "Told me that I was being too proud. He said that we need each other, now more than ever."

"Oh?" Jor-El hesitates. "You told your father _everything_?"

"I did," Faora-Ul raises her chin defiantly. "I had to. House Zod is a Pure Line house. And I trust him. Besides," she adds, with a touch of wryness, "There are some things that not even your credits can buy." 

"I'm glad to see that you still think that I retain some proprietary interest in the credits," Jor-El replies dryly. "What now, then?" 

"What?"

"Certainly there's still something that we can do, even in the Academy."

"Oh." Faora-Ul frowns. "I need you to remotely forward a copy of all your data findings to my father."

"Easily done." He can probably sneak out during curfew to an array.

"And then," Faora-Ul narrows her eyes, "You're going to learn more of the Horu-Kanu. _And_ you're going to have to learn how to spot an Inkorp assassin." 

"I feel that we should warn the others, somehow." At Faora-Ul's snort, Jor-El adds, "They've been with us for five cycles, Faora. Surely it's evident that there aren't any assassins among them."

"The fewer of us who know about this, the better." Faora-Ul shakes her head. "Let's keep matters contained."

"You're going to have to learn to trust others," Jor-El notes. "Sometime in the near future."

"I trust you," Faora-Ul tells him sourly. "Beyond all reason, sometimes." 

"I _did_ give you a hundred million credits."

"That did help," she admits. "Just a little."

XVIII.

It takes only one tech class for their instructor to concede that Jor-El already knows far more about hacking, basic tech and engineering than said instructor has learned in his lifetime. Trus-Vex calls Jor-El to his office afterwards, before curfew, when the rest of the class clears out to the rec rooms.

"You embarrassed Rais," Trus-Vex begins by saying.

"That wasn't my intention, sir."

Trus-Vex smiles wryly. "He was not offended. Sit down, Jor-El." 

Jor-El settles into the stiff chair as directed. Trus-Vex's office, for all that he is currently still the undisputed Head of the Military Academy, is small and cubical, large enough only to fit an infogrid array, a workbench, and a small armoury of ornamental, antique guns, ranging from pre-evolutionary gunpowder types to the early blasters, all affixed to a wall with neat little infoplaques. Trus-Vex looks old and tired, his fingers dancing briefly over the infogrid console before he glances back to Jor-El. 

"The class is laughably basic for you."

"Surely there is something that I can learn," Jor-El says politely.

"I doubt it." Trus-Vex taps at the console. "It is a waste of your time, and a waste of Rais' time. You will receive an automatic grade for this subject. However," he adds sharply, when Jor-El blinks, "You will not be idle during the class. You will instead report to Lab-Four, in the vectran wing of the Academy during Rais' class. You will begin by assisting the technicians. Should you prove to be capable, you will be assigned your own projects."

"Really?" Jor-El brightens up, then hastily remembers to school his features. "Thank you sir!"

"You've grown old enough and strong enough to deal with any remaining bloodline conflicts," Trus-Vex shrugs. "And although you've been doing fairly well in your studies here in the Academy, it's still a Rao-damned waste, in my opinion, that you are here. Try not to blow up the lab."

Faora-Ul is dour when Jor-El tells her about this later in the cantina, still excited. "Ah, now you're isolated."

"She doesn't mean it," Rax Tao-Rul drawls, having seated himself next to Jor-El despite Faora-Ul's terrifying scowl. "Congratulations, Jor."

"Thank you, Rax," Jor-El replies, with mock politeness, and turns back to Faora-Ul. "That's what a friend would say."

"You're going to be found dismembered in the corridor," Faora-Ul replies, and cuts into her zuurt steak with vicious precision.

"The vectran wing is guarded by regulars. Don't listen to her," Rax Tao-Rul pats his shoulder comfortingly. "It's a pity, though. I was hoping that I would be able to copy your work during the subject and pass."

"I could still help you during our breaks," Jor-El offers automatically, and Faora-Ul rolls her eyes. She eats quickly, gets up from the bench and stalks away, and Rax Tao-Rul arches his eyebrows.

"What's wrong with _her_?"

"Who knows?" Was Faora-Ul worried about him? No, that didn't seem like something she would do. 

" _You_ should," Rax Tao-Rul watches him keenly. "Aren't the two of you best friends?"

Jor-El blinks at Rax Tao-Rul, surprised at the question. He's always thought of Lara Lor-Van as his best friend, or Nim-El, if brothers could be counted. But now that Rax Tao-Rul asks, he's keenly aware that he's only seen Lara perhaps three times during his break, and they had only spoken about inconsequential things. He would have trusted Lara with his life, but with other matters-

"Hey," Rax Tao-Rul says into the silence, "Don't worry about it. I was just joking. She's a tough one."

"She's a good person," Jor-El says defensively, and gets up from the bench even as Rax Tao-Rul opens his mouth. He's spotted Lor ambling down the line of tables, his tray already empty. "Lor," he calls, as he approaches.

Lor shoots him a startled glance, then he drops his eyes and hurries away. Awkwardly, Jor-El stops, and nearly flinches when Rax Tao-Rul speaks at his elbow. 

"Strange kid."

"He has a language disability." Jor-El reminds him. The Houseless were still prone to birth defects. 

"Still strange," Rax Tao-Rul shrugs. "Some of the others think that he's only here because he's An'kka's pet project."

"That's hardly true," Jor-El retorts. "He does fairly well."

"And he's Houseless," Rax Tao-Rul points out, "The only Houseless boy who does 'fairly well', which is to say, _very_ well. You'll have to expect some jealousy." Rax Tao-Rul eyes him closely. "You've never tried to talk to him before. Not since Cycle-One."

"Things change."

"This isn't about last cycle's wargame? I heard rumours," Rax Tao-Rul explains, when Jor-El frowns at him. 

"Maybe," Jor-El replies, carefully reserved, and Rax Tao-Rul sighs.

"What happened to the Jor whom I know? This isn't like you."

"Things change," Jor-El repeats, now a little sadly. "I'm sorry, Rax. I can't tell you."

"All right," Rax Tao-Rul sighs. "Just be careful."

XIX.

It doesn't take long for Jor-El to get assigned to his own projects. He works AI development and hypershield generators into his projects under his supervisors' noses, and when a few weeks pass without the vectran wing exploding, even Faora-Ul grudgingly seems to upgrade her personal projection of his life expectancy.

His AI work allows him to be careful, anyway: he builds an upgraded version of the tessebots that he has been developing at the El estates, pod-shaped and self-propelled, compressed versions of persobots that also have a miniature tesseglyph facade. He adds scanner sensors into the tessebots and tethers one to himself via a circa optic link, taking it around with him even to the cantina and the barracks. It'll warn him if anyone that it's never scanned before is coming close. Hopefully, it'll give him a head start. 

Working with tech also helps him settle his mind. Jor-El is careful not to get too absorbed in his work and let down his guard, but building machines has always set his mind at peace, and it's nice not to think of his problems for a while. 

The idyll doesn't quite last. 

The tessebot flicks to life as he's about to round a corner in the vectran wing one afternoon, its facade building into a very familiar face, and Jor-El halts so abruptly that he nearly stumbles. Hastily, he gestures, and the tessebot flicks back to neutral even as Dru-Zod steps out into the corridor. Jor-El doesn't tense, but it's close.

"A word?" Dru-Zod murmurs, and Jor-El nods, his heart rate picking up as he leads Dru-Zod away from the main corridor to a relatively disused side storage room. He makes a signal at the bot, and its scanner array sweeps the room in grids of pale blue. 

No bugs or vidfeeds. Jor-El turns to regard Dru-Zod. His shoulder-blades itch, and his training's trying to get him into a state of heightened awareness, but he forces the impulse down.

Dru-Zod is _not_ an enemy. He has to believe that, for his own sanity if nothing else.

"Dru," Jor-El begins, and he doesn't need to force warmth. Despite everything, he _has_ missed Dru-Zod - he always will, he thinks fiercely. He almost steps forward for an embrace, but even as he does, he remembers the tesseglyph simulation, the miniature model of Dru-Zod, standing at parade rest, and he hesitates. 

"I'll be brief," Dru-Zod frowns slightly at him, before his expression smooths. "I have a lead on the Inkorp assassin."

Jor-El blinks, startled - he hadn't been expecting that. "You… you do?"

"My father has learned through a source that the security of the Capita building was breached a couple of months ago," Dru-Zod says briskly, "Files were stolen, particularly files pertaining to the last cycle. The breach was professionally conducted and investigations as yet have not identified the means."

"Ah…" Jor-El mentally kicks himself, bottling down his instinctive panic, breathing out. "What makes you think that this security breach pertains to the assassin?"

"My father believes that it does."

"You've met his source?"

"No, but he is confident. It is just a lead. A long shot, perhaps, but worth investigating. My father thinks that the culprit who hired the assassin is trying to cover his tracks." 

Jor-El's heart aches, suddenly and painfully; all his secrets stand on the tip of his tongue, and it's only through a supreme effort of self control that he only breathes out a slow breath. What could have happened? How could Ter-Zod have learned-

There were two copies of the files. One set with Jor-El, and one set with Hu-Ul. The breach had to be with the latter. If so, was Faora-Ul to be trusted? Jor-El's instincts told him _yes_ , but now he wasn't sure, and the very thought hurt almost as much as knowing that Dru-Zod was mixed up, however peripherally, in the last attempt on his life.

"Jor?" Dru-Zod prompts, curious. "Are you well?"

"I'm well. Just tired." Jor-El forces a smile. "How are you going to proceed?"

"Investigations do not tend to be very exciting," Dru-Zod shrugs. "I'll have to study a lot of vid feeds, probably. Make some inquiries. Usually the best method to break into a bank is the most obvious one. I'll have to study all the people who have normal access. And study any unusual occurrences in the bank's procedures." 

Jor-El's heart sinks, and again he wants to tell Dru-Zod everything. Again, he thinks better of the impulse. What _could_ he say? Sorry, your thief is standing right before you? "You've decided to attend to this lead personally?"

"I requested for the privilege. I want to find whoever it is who targeted you as much as you do." 

"All right," Jor-El says finally. He doesn't know what else to say. "Please keep me updated."

"I will." Dru-Zod's frown is back, and his hand lifts for a moment, as though he's about to reach for Jor-El, then he thinks better of it: his hand drops and clenches. He nods at Jor-El, his eyes sharply questioning, but when Jor-El only nods back at him, Dru-Zod ducks out of the room and leaves stiffly.

Jor-El counts to ten in his head, then lets out a ragged breath. Rao save them all, what a complication!

He spends the rest of the session doing nothing at all useful, and at the end, near curfew, he buries his face in his hands with a sigh. Dru-Zod had clearly sensed that something was off. If Jor-El doesn't choose to trust Faora-Ul, then he has no one left, and he can't bear that. He can't imagine moving forward alone.

It takes him a few klicks to finally approach Faora-Ul, however, and when he tells her everything, she is furious. 

"My _father_ could be in danger, you idiot!" she snarls. "Why didn't you talk to me _earlier?_ "

"He has been in danger the moment you told him what we had done," Jor-El retorts. They're in a corner of the cleared out rec room, and Faora-Ul is pacing on the matteflak floor, her boots soft and quiet on the ground, the tension in her shoulders coiling her spine. "I'll get a message out to him. But how did the leak happen?"

Faora-Ul closes her eyes briefly. "He must have confronted Ter-Zod directly, it would be just like him," She pales suddenly. "If he did-"

"If someone as prominent as General Hu-Ul disappears," Jor-El notes sharply, "Then there would have been news."

Faora-Ul resumes her pacing. "Send out the warning. I'll give you his persocode, he won't ignore anything sent there." 

"Surely your father wouldn't have showed Ter-Zod the vidfeed, even if he confronted Ter-Zod." Jor-El mutters, "He agreed not to show it to _anyone_. How did Ter-Zod know about the break in?"

Faora-Ul nibbles on her lower lip, frowning, then she sighs. "My father's password," she says, finally. "It's my birth date. Hardly secure, I know. But he claims that he has no head for numbers and no interest in installing DNA codekeys."

Jor-El groans. Of _course_. And Faora-Ul _had_ mentioned that the password hadn't changed in ten _cycles_. He should have known. He should have thought of a contingency _earlier_. "I'll check if anyone else has accessed his infogrid profile in the last few days, then."

"I think we can safely assume that someone has," Faora-Ul scowls. "The problem at present is what _we_ have to do _next_."

"I'll think of something."

"Think _quickly_."


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The problem with lies is that when they spiral out of control they can destroy everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNING FOR:** MINOR CANON CHARACTER DEATHS 
> 
> Not sure if I have to warn for that but eh, I guess it's a courtesy...? For DC, lots of people in Superman tend to die, haha.

XX.

Nothing happens for months. Jor-El isn't sure who's more surprised - himself or Faora-Ul.

Unknown to them at the time, though, the break was never going to last. Mere klicks after Dru-Zod had sought him out in the vectran wing, General Hu-Ul had requested a meeting with Seyg-El, who was surprised to learn about the true nature of his eldest son's holiday activities, presumably. Jor-El never gets to find out. Their meeting, and the subsequence alliance between El and Ul is the start of the schism between the Pure Line Houses, a clash played out in the very highest levels of politics over the next few months. 

Jor-El will never learn the precise details. He doesn't even have any particularly clear memories of the very moment that the repercussions of the alliance finally storm through the basalite doors of the Academy. His class had been going through an obstacle course in base-four when the alarm had gone off, and then he only has a memory of chaos: of black-visored soldiers, firing into his squad from all sides, of Faora-Ul dragging him through a servo door.

He manages to focus by the time they get out to base-two, and it's a near thing - the level is full of bodies, felled where they stood. Someone had cut through the _admin staff_ to get to the servolift-

"Path of least resistance," Faora-Ul mutters, and jerks around at a step behind them. It's Rax Tao-Rul, holding up his palms, his rifle slung at his back, and she glowers at him as she lowers the muzzle of her blaster. "Fantastic. As though we didn't have _enough_ problems, now we have to handle dead weight."

"That's not a nice thing to say," Jor-El notes reproachfully. He kneels down, checking the closest body for a pulse, and he breathes out when he feels a faint flutter. "They've only been stunned."

"It's still not a _polite_ way of greeting anyone, so I don't really think that whoever it is who's invaded is friendly," Rax Tao-Rul points out dryly. "Also, I note that you didn't exactly disagree with Faora-"

"Will the both of you _move_ ," Faora-Ul beckons irritably at them from the end of the corridor, and Jor-El makes it to her even as they hear the heavy tread of armored boots start to come up the stairwell from far behind them.

"I don't think that you're dead weight," Jor-El feels pressed to whisper, as they hurry up the antestairs towards the nearest launch strip, and gets a growl from Faora-Ul for his efforts. 

"Too kind," Rax Tao-Rul murmurs in response.

"Am I the only one concerned about the soldiers trying to kill us?" Faora-Ul hisses, stepping out into an adjoining corridor, only for Jor-El to yank her hastily back into cover as his tessebot's surface shifts in warning. She glowers at him, but he jerks his head at the tessebot, which is already showing a helpful map of their immediate surroundings. Four dots are rounding towards them, and Faora-Ul nods and holds up her palm. 

Taken by surprise, the soldiers don't pose much of a threat. They work their way along steadily and carefully: this is the servo-level of the Academy, and most of the pockets of resistance are further above ground, where the instructors and cadets are. The few roving patrols they meet are easily dispatched, until Jor-El's feeling somewhat more confident.

"We should head up," he tells Faora-Ul in a whisper, "Regroup with Trus-Vex and An'kka."

"No, we should get out," Faora-Ul disagrees.

"Maybe they aren't after me."

"Maybe tomorrow I'll wake up as a snagriff," Faora-Ul counters.

"Ah? That would be interesting," Jor-El notes, straight-faced, and Faora-Ul scowls at him even as Rax Tao-Rul stifles a laugh by coughing. 

"This is all your fault, in any regard," Faora-Ul decides, when they finally reach the servo-level's launch strip. It's deserted, but there's still an Academy servoship in a landing bay: it'll get them out of here. 

"Why's that?" Jor-El steps over to the servoship's loader hatch, instructing the tessebot to begin overriding its laughably simple security codes. 

He never gets a response - Faora-Ul lets out a choked yelp, then collapses. Jor-El instinctively flattens himself against the servoship, but Rax Tao-Rul already has his rifle trained on him. 

"Drop your gun," Rax Tao-Rul instructs coolly, and Jor-El slowly obeys. A cold twist of shock jolts through him, but it shows how numbed he's grown of betrayal that he only views this new wound with resignation. 

"Did you kill her?"

"She's stunned. I have no quarrel with her." 

"And you have a quarrel with me?" 

"Actually," Rax Tao-Rul's lip twists, "You're a genuinely good Kryptonian, Jor-El. Probably the best that I know. And you've been a good friend. It's a pity that you're worth so much in credits."

"If you need credits-"

"Even if you bought me off," Rax Tao-Rul continues, his eyes hard, "Your father's policies will eventually still squeeze my House to nothing." 

"Policies can be changed, Rax. Death is final."

"How can you be so _reasonable_ about it all?" Rax Tao-Rul demands, and he's agitated, Jor-El realizes: this rifle muzzle shakes almost imperceptibly, and his finger is loose over the trigger. "How are you so _naive_? Surely you should have seen that there was a traitor close to you-"

"You've been trying to kill me since Cycle-One?" Jor-El cuts in, surprised. Either Rax Tao-Rul was an excellent actor, or-

"No, no, I was just placed to watch you. At first. Pass on information." Rax Tao-Rul narrows his eyes. "You make _everything_ hard, Jor. Why did you have to be what you are?"

"Rax, listen to me," Jor-El forces his voice to stay calm. " _Who_ put the price on my head?"

"Who _hasn't?_ " Rax Tao-Rul growls. "Your family has this talent for attracting enemies. Walk. To the edge of the landing strip. _Move_."

"Rax-" Jor-El clenches his teeth when a warning blast knocks the tessebot from the air, sending it spinning and fizzing uselessly on the ground. "All right. I'm moving." He circles away from the servoship, hands still up in the air, backing to the edge.

"I can't, I can't shoot you, you're unarmed," Rax Tao-Rul shudders convulsively, and his eyes are haunted and uncertain. "But you can jump." 

"If you can't shoot me," Jor-El points out, "Then we're at a bit of an impasse."

"I will if I have to," Rax Tao-Rul hisses, though the rifle wavers again. "I have to do this. For my House. For what your family has done to all the lower tier Houses, to the Houseless. This is our best chance." 

"What would Lara think, Rax?"

"She'll never know. She'll-" Rax Tao-Rul half-turns, at a movement in his peripheral vision, but then he gets knocked spinning from a pulse shot, his rifle clattering to the edge of the launch strip as he shakes against the ground, his back arching sharply, then he slumps, unconscious.

Jor-El starts forward, then he hesitates as a tall Kryptonian in persteel and an opaque black visor strides out onto the launch strip, a pulse rifle aimed at him. It doesn't waver, not even when the Kryptonian steps closer, and then Jor-El _knows_ , somehow, knows it from the tension in the line of the Kryptonian's broad shoulders, the silent, sleek length of his stride.

"Dru," he murmurs, and if he was resigned before, he's calm, now. He finds - he finds that he doesn't mind, after all. If it ends like this. If this is the last thing that he sees.

Dru-Zod pauses, then at some unseen command, the visor flickers up. Dru-Zod's rifle might not waver, but his eyes are wild with that familiar fey intensity. "You broke into the Capita building, did you not?" he begins by demanding, and his tone is coldly flat. "It was you."

"Yes."

"What did you find?"

"I think," Jor-El says quietly, "That you know what I found."

Dru-Zod closes his eyes, but only for a moment; when he opens them again, his eyes are awfully blank, his mouth set into a knife-like line. "You should have come to me."

"I know." 

"You should have _trusted_ me."

"And what would that have done?"

Dru-Zod shudders, sucking in a harsh breath. "My father - my father told me that he was left with no other alternatives, once General Hu-Ul presented him with the evidence. That the Pure Line houses were beginning to go to war against each other. That to save our House, he would have to take over the Council. That to save the Dreaming City, there had to be a coup."

"The first motive is selfish. The second, perhaps less so. And you," Jor-El tries gentleness, "Are not selfish, Dru."

"I am far more selfish than you think," Dru-Zod says bitterly, "And am far less deserving of your opinion than you know."

"I doubt that-"

"Why do you think you were put in the Military Academy, Jor?" 

"Your father-"

"And where did he come by his notion," Dru-Zod grits out, his expression briefly contorted with pain - with _guilt_ , Jor-El realizes, so old that it had festered, "That you had some sort of aptitude for strategy?"

Ah. "You were but a child as well, informing your father of what you saw fit."

"And why do you think," Dru-Zod adds, pained, "That my father chose to employ an assassin? He _knew_ , Jor. He knew that I wouldn't… that I would defy him in this where I had always obeyed his will. I was never going to give you up."

Ter-Zod had known that his politics would end with Dru-Zod: if not now, then when Jor-El came of majority. It had been a point of pride, and also one of desperation, perhaps. "You didn't know what that transaction was, did you? The one with Severan?"

Dru-Zod shook his head. "Still - still, all this could have been avoided-"

"I think," Jor-El notes wryly, "That you underestimate our fathers' penchants at quarrelling, and you're giving yourself too much credit for fate. And had I not been in the Military Academy, it's quite likely that I would not have survived as long as I have." 

"Still," Dru-Zod repeats. "Now we have stepped past the point of return, and your House lies in ruin."

In _ruin_ …? 

Jor-El jerks around, straining to look up, past the thick spires of the surrounding silos around the Academy, and he sees - Rao save them all - he sees a thick plume of smoke, curling steadily towards the sun. "What have you _done_ ," he whispers, and his calm breaks, hands clenching, dizzy, "What have you done? My mother was right," Jor-El adds, low and furious and sick with horror and grief, "Yours is a House of _butchers_." His father. His mother. _Nim and Zor_ -

Dru-Zod flinches, but he does not attempt to divide himself from the sins of his father. "The Dreaming City sits on the brink of total civil war. Your father would have-"

"My father is a good Kryptonian!" Jor-El shouts, "A good Kryptonian who would never raise his hand against another! My mother? A philanthropist! My twin brother, an architect! My youngest brother, a child! Your House would spend their blood to make a _political point_? How dare you?"

"We _dare_ ," Dru-Zod snaps, "Because of _duty_ , Jor. Duty is what House Zod is born for. Duty to Krypton, to the Dreaming _City_."

"Don't _preach to me_ ," Jor-El hisses, "If you'll write your edicts in the blood of everyone I have ever loved, then add mine to the count and be damned for it. I was wrong about you, Dru. Your hands are as stained with our lives as your _father's_." 

Dru-Zod steps back, and for a moment anguish twists at his face, and even as Jor-El thinks, fiercely, _good_ , he cannot find it in himself to feel anything but black sorrow. He clenches his hands and forces himself to look Dru-Zod in the eye, and that's why he sees the flicker in Dru-Zod's eyes just before his visor comes down and the pulse gun charges up.

The shot that punches him over the edge hurts far less than it should: it's only concussive. Confused, still furious, Jor-El twists in the air and wonders if he's to die splashed across the lowest level of the Dreaming City, seeing the final level of the city's heart as the last thing in his life - then he yelps as he lands heavily against H'Raka. 

For a moment, he's disoriented, scrabbling and dazed, then he fits himself over H'Raka's back out of blind practice. The hybrid chirps encouragingly, and darts away from the thick of traffic, keeping in the shadows of the silos as it wings away from the Military Academy. Frowning, Jor-El strokes the powerful muscles of H'Raka's front set of wings, glancing back behind him - Dru-Zod's already striding back across the launch strip, ignoring Faora-Ul's and Rax Tao-Rul's bodies. 

How had H'Raka known-

But of course. The concussive shot, set to knock him back but not to stun. The pain in Dru-Zod's eyes when Jor-El had- 

Still. Even if Dru-Zod could not bear to kill him, his family has been murdered, and if he was found, he would be killed in turn. His fate seems merely delayed, and it's a bitter and lonely one; Jor-El sits dully on H'Raka as the hybrid wings on, heading purposefully towards its destination, whatever it is. Jor-El is too wrapped in grief to care. 

H'Raka lands eventually on a dusty planarform, linked to an abandoned apt on the outskirts of the city; within view of the Divide - the arcosteel wall that separates the Dreaming City from the Endorian Wastes, which stretch from the feet of the City along the Severing Sea. He's numb to the sight, even though he's never been this close, though he dismounts when H'Raka chirps at him, and hugs the hybrid's muzzle tightly. He doesn't remember if he weeps - he probably does - he's exhausted by the time H'Raka nudges him further along the planarform. It leads into a small chamber with a downward-leading stairwell and a cot, the mattress partly disintegrated and dusty from neglect. Jor-El is past caring: he curls on it and sleeps. He drowns.

XXI.

Training shakes him awake when R'Druk lands on the planarform, greeting H'Raka with a whistle; Jor-El scrambles to his feet, dizzy and all too aware of how disheveled he probably looks. Dru-Zod has something large wrapped in black fabric that he lifts carefully off the saddle - he strides past Jor-El and settles the bundle on the cot before unwrapping it.

It's Zor-El, curled in a fetal position, and for a moment, Jor-El thinks that this is some sort of terrifyingly cruel gesture, and then he sees the rise and fall of Zor-El's chest and guilt crushes his outrage sharply before it even clears his throat. Hastily, Jor-El checks his little brother over - Zor-El's bruised, and his hands are scraped, but other than that, he's _alive_ and-

"The rest of my family?" Jor-El asks anxiously. "Please."

Dru-Zod flinches, as though struck, and doesn't meet his eyes. "I'm sorry, Jor. Zor-El survived because he hid inside one of your machines, in your lab. It was shielded from scandrones. I had to sedate him to sneak him out." 

There are a hundred things on the tip of his tongue, but what Jor-El forces himself to say is, "Thank you."

"Don't thank me for this," Dru-Zod mutters. "If my father doesn't find Zor-El's body, he won't stop searching. I've made things complicated and-"

"Don't, don't, just stop," Jor-El grits out. Dru-Zod stiffens, and he nods, slowly. "Why did you save him, then?"

"As you have said," Dru-Zod meets his eyes, this time, "Zor-El is only a child." 

"And your 'duty' dictates?"

"Don't push me, Jor," Dru-Zod snaps, his hands clenching. "I've done far more than I should have as it is, and all that I've earned for it is your hatred."

At that, Jor-El exhales. "I don't hate you." He doesn't. He doesn't know what it is like to hate, though he thinks that perhaps he's beginning to know, now that he's beginning to touch the enormity of his grief.

"Don't see this as a favor."

"I don't." Jor-El clutches his hands over his arms, for a while, then determined, he steps over. Dru-Zod backs off, but Jor-El corners him against a wall, and he's stiff when embraced, as though expecting a blow. Jor-El closes his eyes, instead, holds him, pressing his mouth against Dru-Zod's neck. Eventually, Dru-Zod slips his hands lightly over Jor-El's hips, hesitantly, then he sweeps them over his back when Jor-El only presses closer. 

"You'll have to walk away from this," Dru-Zod says finally, in a soft whisper against his temple. "I arranged a few supplies but they won't last the both of you long. You'll have to descend."

"I know." The relatively lawless stretch of Strata 0 should hide him, as frightening as the thought is, especially with Zor-El to protect. Impulsively, despite himself, he adds, "Come with us."

Dru-Zod's arms tighten briefly around him. "I would if I could." 

"I need-"

"You don't need me," Dru-Zod interrupts. "Not after all that I've done to us. Besides, you're the smartest Kryptonian I know. You'll find your own way." He brushes a kiss over Jor-El's forehead, heartbreakingly soft, "And I'm better placed up here. I promise you that I'll make this right. Somehow. You won't have to hide all of your life."

"You're conceding that your House was wrong to do this?"

"Don't _push_ me," Dru-Zod growls, with a harsh breath. "You know what I mean." 

"Maybe I need to hear it."

"I'm born to-" Dru-Zod cuts himself off, with a swallow, as Jor-El brushes his lips against his throat. "Stop that."

"Mm?" He nuzzles harder, and Dru-Zod sucks in another harsh breath. 

In a way, this is revenge. All the pain that rests between them, all the grief and loss and betrayal - this is still the best way that Jor-El has left to hurt Dru-Zod. Again, he feels a little satisfaction, at first, but it's swiftly replaced by hollowness. Dru-Zod _has_ done more than he should. He's rebelled against an entire lifetime's worth of doctrine, against all that he has ever known. Dru-Zod has taken far more than a leap of faith into the dark: he's done it thinking that he has nowhere to go but fall, and yet, he leaped regardless. 

Dru-Zod jerks back when Jor-El leans up to kiss him, and they fumble awkwardly for a while before Jor-El finally manages to pin him and press their lips together. Dru-Zod's lips stay clamped shut, at least until Jor-El starts to lick patiently against him, and then he lets out a strangled, desperate sound, and this seals his victory, Jor-El thinks, numb again only for a moment before he curls his arms tightly around Dru-Zod's neck. No. Not a victory. Their promise. 

Perhaps Dru-Zod senses it too; he shrinks against the wall, and then they're jostling and sliding as they sink into a heap on the dusty ground, still locked together, mouths hot against each other, hands clutching. They kiss until Jor-El has poured out all his pain and anger and grief, until Dru-Zod has given him all his anguish and self-doubt and fear, until there's nothing between them but base honesty, pure honesty. For now, it has to be enough. He has little else left to lose.

"Madness," Dru-Zod murmurs between them, wonderingly, and Jor-El licks over his mouth in agreement.

"I am but one soul," Jor-El quotes, and grins as he feels Dru-Zod stiffen beneath him as he recognises the line, the start of one of the oldest of all Kryptonian rituals, "And of all things Rao created a pair-"

"You still have no right," Dru-Zod interrupts, though he strokes his fingers over Jor-El's cheek, gentle, longing. "For this world and the next," he adds then, softly, quoting the very end. They'll leave all of everything in between unsaid: it isn't necessary, perhaps not ever. After all, they know where they have come, and they know where they must go. 

"One and a half cycles to go, now," Jor-El reminds him. 

"I don't expect you to-"

"That means," Jor-El continues, "That I think that you have a deadline to meet."

Dru-Zod snorts, and he sounds far more like his usual self, though he shifts up onto his elbows to take another, lingering kiss, and the last of the rawness of Jor-El's grief settles, for now. "So be it."


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Descent to Strata 0.

XXII.

By the time Zor-El finally wakes up, he's groggy and subdued, traumatised - he doesn't question how he ended up so far from the House: he clings to Jor-El instead, even as Jor-El sorts through the few items that Dru-Zod had thought to pack in H'Raka's saddlebags.

Dru-Zod and the hybrids were long gone, and he misses them already. He misses his parents. He misses _Nim_. If not for Zor-El's shivering presence, the silence would have been overwhelming. He wouldn't have had the will to keep moving on, if so: at least, not so quickly. Now, for the sake of his brother, Jor-El packs away all his grief, all his pain. He _has_ to _function_. He can break down later, when they're safe. They can't stay long in a House Zod safehouse.

The persteel has to go, of course. Jor-El dresses himself in the coarse tunics and breeches that Dru-Zod had packed - probably lifted from some poor guard's possessions. There's a small cache of credits, in an unmarked module, a pack of protein cubes and a canister of water, a compact blaster with a holster, and a small map pod that projects a map of Strata 0. Large tracts of it are highlighted in red, although with no explanation as to why, and a small blinking green dot shows them where they are, near the edge of the wall. Some distance away there's a green dot, and Jor-El puzzles this over. Another safehouse, perhaps? 

Well. It's not as though they have anywhere else to turn. Jor-El rips up the black cloth, wrapping his brother in it: it'll pass muster, for now, hiding the rich make of his House clothes beneath it. Zor-El submits to this in silence, his eyes downcast.

"We're going to have to move somewhere safer," Jor-El says, and when his voice breaks the silence, Zor-El flinches. "Zor?"

"All right," Zor-El nods, his voice soft, then he clenches his hands. "Where _were_ you? Nim was home with a few of his friends-"

Here it comes. Jor-El settles down, cross-legged, his hands firm on his little brother's shoulders. "I was in the Academy, Zor. You know that. They came for me too. They attacked my _class_. By the time I managed to escape, it was too late."

Too late. Even had he known in advance, somehow-

Zor-El lets out a slow, shaky breath. "I was too small!" He bursts out finally, his voice thin, in a wail, "I was too small to help so Nim hid me in one of your machines, he said no-one would find me there and he would come back for me when it was safe!"

Ah - that explained how Zor-El had seemed to know where to hide. Jor-El had only ever discussed the full details of his experiments and machines with his twin. 

"Oh, Zor," Jor-El murmurs, and he pulls Zor-El into his arms, rocking him; he feels a sting in his eyes and a wet press over his cheeks; he's crying too, even as his brother sobs against him. 

In the face of his brother's grief he can see the mirror of his own, in the phantom void that's been left in his twin brother's wake. They had been meant to grow up together, meant to face the future together: until the Academy they had almost never been apart, and now- and now he can't even remember what Nim-El was like when they had last parted. He can't even begin to imagine the entirety of his loss: when Nim-El had gone, he had ripped part of Jor-El away with him. 

"I heard him die," Zor-El whispers, his voice hitching and broken, a terrible thing to hear from a child, "I heard him die and I did nothing."

Jor-El has nothing to say to that, not really - what sort of comfort could he offer his brother? Nothing he could do would ever take away that sort of guilt - even if Zor-El ever accepts that there was nothing that he could have done. "Shh," he whispers, and strokes Zor-El's thick curls. "Hold that in your mind," he adds, echoing his instruction, "But don't let it spread over you. Keep it close, but keep it contained. Don't let it shake you now. It's still part of you, but you can look at it later. Do you understand?"

"No, I-"

"I need you," Jor-El continues, "To be strong for me now. We can't stay here. They're still looking for us."

"I, oh," Zor-El shivers, his small hands clutching at Jor-El's jacket. "Yes."

Jor-El uses the dust of the room to stain their cheeks and hands, then he makes a hooded cloak with the rest of the cloth and pulls it over his head. Hopefully, this is enough. He puts the map pod and the module into his pockets, and lets out a breath as he straps on the blaster, hiding it under the cloak. After that, he pitches the persteel pieces over the side of the planarform.

"Where are we going?" Zor-El asks, as they go down the dank stairwell, his hand clutching Jor-El's tightly.

"Somewhere safe." Or so he hopes. He should have asked Dru-Zod more questions. Had he been less dazed-

"All right." Zor-El's unquestioning faith both humbles and frightens him. He squeezes his brother's hand in the dark, and feels Zor-El squeeze his fingers back. "And then? After that?"

"I need to find out what happened to our friends. Whether they're all right." Faora-Ul, Lara Lor-Van… his squad- 

"We're going down into Strata Zero," Zor-El seemed to realize this belatedly, though his steps don't falter. "Should we really-"

"It's where no one will look for us," Jor-El replies, and Zor-El scurries closer, until he's nearly pressed up against Jor-El. He doesn't say anything, though, or protest. "Once we're out, I'm going to need you to be quiet. Don't stare at anyone. We can't draw attention."

"I know." There's a long, slow breath in the silence, then Zor-El adds, more softly, "I don't know if you know, Jor, but Mother and Father, they… they didn't make it. The soldiers, they knew where to strike, we didn't have enough defences, Nim took me and ran but-"

"Shh." Jor-El chokes back the sob in his throat, and squeezes Zor-El's palm. "Tell me later. For now, we need to get somewhere safer."

The ground floor door is jammed, and Jor-El has to put his shoulder to it before he can force it far open enough for them to wriggle out. Zor-El looks around with unabashed curiosity despite Jor-El's instructions, and Jor-El supposes that in a way, this is like stepping out of an entire world and into the next. The ground is sticky and uneven beneath their feet, a vast stretch of waste and junk, with the twisted guts of ancient, rusting contrivances lifting out of the sagging flesh of rags and old furniture and shattered old hovercars and cells. It's broken only briefly at times by patches that reveal the pitted tolcrete floor beneath them, ancient and gray, almost never used above Strata 2 now, as unlovely and as breakable as it is. The Dreaming City dreams with its feet in the past.

This part of Strata 0 doesn't seem inhabited, though Jor-El's superior vision picks up a few straggling movements on the junk heaps, far to his right, even through the grainy blanket of the perpetual smog. He binds a rag over his mouth as an awkward shield against the thick polluting fog, and before he can bend to help Zor-El with the same, Zor-El is already mimicking him with a corner torn from his cloak.

They pick their way quietly around the heaps and hills of forgotten trash, some freshly dumped, some ancient. The Dreaming City has edicts regarding safe waste removal, but the Houseless and the lowest tier Houses likely have not the energy credits to operate proper conversion tanks. Zor-El coughs a few times, muted by the cloth, but he doesn't complain, and eventually, they even manage to get a little used to the stench. 

A scavenger watches them once cautiously, from behind a wrecked old aesol hub, filthy and thin, face hidden under an old black filter mask, dwarfish in stature, but he or she says nothing, ducking away quickly. Jor-El fights the urge to run. When in an unusual situation, he thinks, recalling Trus-Vex's lectures, _never_ show fear.

They walk until Zor-El starts to stumble, then Jor-El picks him up, ignoring his mumbled protests. The child's exhausted and still in shock, after all. Jor-El walks until he can't walk any longer, squinting at the sky: he can't quite see it, so far below. Strata 0 is almost perpetually lit, the visibility low but serviceable, from the marker ampule rings set above at the start of Strata 1, encircling each vast spire or column that rises from the wasteland. 

He manages to pick his way up a steep slope of rusting metal to the maw of an old public transser, its cylindrical length sundered in two, the glass cloudy and near opaque. Near the back, its hover engine and fuel tanks have long been scavenged, torn free from their brackets. Things skitter away on his approach that he thankfully can't recognise in the shadow of the rusted hull, and he settles Zor-El on one of the rotted seats before sitting down carefully himself. Dangling handholds still line both rows of seats in the transser, but the public infogrid displays along the top of the unbroken hull have long cracked. 

Zor-El's curiosity wakes even past his exhaustion, and the child looks around them, touching his fingers to one of the support poles. "What is this? It doesn't look like a jumpship."

"It's a transser, an old model." Jor-El explains, and then he finds himself having to describe the concept of public transport to his little brother, and further, the concept of social inequality. 

Zor-El visibly struggles with the idea that most families have no funds with which to live comfortably, let alone upkeep multiple jumpships, and falls silent. This is what privilege has done, Jor-El thinks, as his brother curls against his flank, instinctively seeking comfort under the weight of his arm. It's blinded them to nearly everything. That, more than House Zod, more than the unrest in Solton, was what had finally sundered House El from the sun.

They have some of the water and force down a few of the cubes, and Zor-El's reluctant when Jor-El gets to his feet. He still follows quietly, though, and on their way down the slope, Jor-El realizes that they've made a mistake. They've stayed long enough that they've been noticed, and although the ones watching them are trying to stay out of sight, Jor-El recognises the signs. 

He picks up his footsteps, but when Zor-El struggles to keep up, Jor-El picks him up. He hesitates for a moment, but when the first shadow uncurls from behind a heap of abandoned arrays, Jor-El starts to run. 

There's a shout behind him, and other figures slip-slide down the junk slopes, trying to flank him. Jor-El grits his teeth as he lengthens his stride. He's faster than any of his pursuers, even weighted down, and they quickly notice this: something whistles past his cheek and shudders into the hulk of an overturned surveyship before him. It's a sharpened spike, and for a moment the sight of the primitive projectile is so surprising that Jor-El nearly turns to look, but his training overrides his curiosity and he sprints up, dodging around the towering bulk of surveyships and old transsers. Against his shoulder, Zor-El sucks in a harsh breath, like a sob, and Jor-El grits his teeth. Reluctantly, he draws his blaster as he slows to a walk. 

If he's by himself, he can probably take out his pursuers - he had counted five, and he rather doubts that they're Guild-trained, judging from their catcalling and shouting. Hesitating by the shattered cockpit of an old servoship, he tries to push Zor-El into it, but his brother clings to his clothes.

"I'll come back for you, I promise," he tells Zor-El in a whisper.

"No!" Zor-El's grip tightens. "That's what Nim said!"

"Zor-" Jor-El begins, then a movement at the edge of his vision catches his attention, he turns, blaster up, and hesitates. 

It's the small scavenger whom he saw earlier, and the scavenger's no dwarf - it's a very young girl, probably around Zor-El's age, her tawny blonde hair hacked short like a boy's, her eyes a piercing blue, her dirty face set in an expression of wary neutrality. She's swaddled in rags and jackets, cut up to fit, with a large pack at her hip, and she beckons urgently. 

Jor-El hesitates. She could be calling them into an ambush, perhaps. Then there's a shout, further along, and she flinches. She beckons one more time, then darts up between a narrow squeeze of two leaning transser wrecks, and swallowing, Jor-El resettles Zor-El in his arms and follows.

She leads them through a warren of rubble, sometimes doubling back, sometimes climbing or slipping into large pipes damp with algae and moss, until eventually she hauls herself nimbly up onto a low platform set against the dulled wall of a building. Jor-El lifts Zor-El onto it before pulling himself up, and the girl has already opened a door set into the side.

It leads into a servo shaft that opens into what looks like an old storage silo, long-abandoned, crates still lining the walls where they've been left. The girl climbs up one of them, and Jor-El follows, Zor-El before him, until they're balanced along the tops of the rows and rows of crates, picking their way over a small maze. At the end of it is a space walled off by painstakingly arranged crates, and it takes Jor-El a moment to register the neat racks of scavenged items, a small cot and even an old replicator, plugged to a patched up old generator.

"Thank you," he says to the girl, then.

She snorts, and waves them over to seat themselves on crates at the side. It's cold in the storage silo, but Jor-El can see that the old generator's fuel cells are low - it's probably all that it can do to power the replicator and the water distiller. 

"You're from Strata One?" she asks, and her voice is rough, as though she hasn't spoken for a while. "Freshies?"

"Never been to Strata Zero before," Jor-El agrees, if evasively. Zor-El is leaning heavily against him, exhausted and shaking gently. "I'm Jor, and this is my brother, Zor."

Zor-El tenses slightly - Jor-El has more or less named them Houseless - but the girl merely shrugs indifferently. "I'm Allura."

"You live here alone?"

"Why do you ask?" Allura asks suspiciously, her hand dropping as though unconsciously to her hip. There's a versteel blade holstered there, probably a little too heavy for her, but it's serviceable, as much as the hilt looks antique. It doesn't look like something that she would have found in the trash, Jor-El thinks. The girl's not Houseless either, no more than they are. Fourth-tier, perhaps, fallen just as low, abandoned. 

Jor-El puts up his hands, palms up, in a conciliatory gesture. "No reason. We're new here. Just trying to make small talk."

"Yeah? This is your first lesson then, for free. Don't ask so many questions." Allura scowls.

"As you say. We're indebted to you. Look," Jor-El glances around, "If you have scavenged any tools, I can fix up that generator for you. It's old, the wiring's inefficient. I'm an engineer," he explains, when Allura's eyes narrow.

"You're a soldier," she disagrees, to his surprise. "I can see it from the way you move. I helped you because you… remind me of someone, that's all. And if you had gotten rid of the Razor boys, you'll only have brought more trouble around here. Razorback doesn't take kindly to his boys dying."

"As you say. Still, the offer stands."

Allura hesitates, suspicious, then she sidles over to an open crate, beside her cot, Picking it up with some effort, she steps over and drops it at his feet. Inside it is the remains of a damaged scannerbot - blaster damage, probably - and a pile of mismatched tools. Then she heads back and sits down on her cot, folding her arms in silent challenge. Jor-El hides a grin, even as Zor-El watches him curiously, and he gets to work.

Absorbed, he doesn't know how long he takes on the bot - the tools are rudimentary, but at least the rewiring doesn't need to be too complex. Zor-El is dozing and slumped against him by the time he starts making a few improvements, just to keep in practice, and at the end, when he starts up the bot, it floats, spinning briefly as its grav arrays realign themselves, then it beeps. It's an old, cheap model, probably scavenged - a panel console rather than a tesseglyph set or even a projection panel, but its screen flickers briefly before it sets into a map of their immediate area. 

"You really _are_ an engineer," Allura concedes from the cot, as the scannerbot reloads its last settings and floats over to her, tethered. "The screen's clearer than it last was, too!"

She's impressed, enough to show her age under her air of affected coldness - Jor-El shrugs: as far as he's concerned, that was just a parlour trick. It's Zor-El who declares proudly, "My brother's the _best_ engineer. He can build _anything_."

"Zor," Jor-El cuts in, chiding, but it's too late - Allura frowns at them both, skeptical again. 

"Where are you both headed?" she asks, a little gruffly.

Jor-El glances at Zor-El, then he reaches into his pockets for the map pod. Allura slips off the cot when it activates, peering as it projects the map above it, and the green dot. "Do you know what that is?" he asks.

"Sure," Allura shrugs. "That's the Ghost Market. It's what passes for the big city here," she adds, with a curl to her mouth: it's sharp, and cut of old memories that don't seem pleasant. "I've been there. You don't want to go there," she adds, "If you've got nothing worth selling."

Why would Dru-Zod direct him there? "What else is in the Ghost Market?"

"Everyone important?" Allura shrugs again. "There's a public uplink up to Strata One. Pretty big residential community. Lots of Houseless families and some lowest tier Houses too. They've even got working arrays and stuff."

Ah. "I see."

"You _really_ don't want to go there. There's been big trouble there for a while: the Solars have been in charge for cycles. They've been trying to find a way to fight the Council for ages. Start a revolution."

"The revolution's already happened," Jor-El says soberly, and his mouth twists. "It's why we're here."

Perhaps he had said too much after all: Allura frowns at them, her hands clenching, then she abruptly blurts out, "If you're going to stay around, you could move in here for a few days if you want. I could find you things to fix. If we sell them over at Old Thar's, we could split the credits."

Zor-El tugs silently at his sleeve. Jor-El looks over, and his brother tilts his head, his eyes pleading. "I suppose," Jor-El murmurs as he replaces the tools in the open crate, "That with your leave, we might stay on here for a while." 

"If you work, sure," Allura tries her best to look lofty, but there's a clear, if reluctant relief in her shoulders. The girl's obviously lonely, and Jor-El briefly wonders what happened to her before he brings himself up short. He has enough problems right now as it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't find out that much about Allura In-Ze, so I'm just going to make it up. XD;; Oh well, it's an AU...?


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Half a cycle later-

XXIII.

Jor-El is absorbed in calibrating the infogrid array that they traded from Old Thar when the patter of small feet makes him look up. It's Allura, flushed with excitement.

Half a cycle with better food - once he had fixed and upgraded the replicator, anyway - had filled her into her growth spurt, and she was slightly taller than Zor-El now, something that she never failed to rub in his face at every opportunity. It had taken her a long time to trust them, despite her original invitation, but he thinks perhaps that they've gotten there. Maybe.

"You've got a visitor," she tells him, "Want us to shoot her? I'm a pretty good shot now."

That's an understatement - Allura's a frighteningly _good_ shot with the bionscope rifle that a pack of refugees had given them in exchange for seeing them through the wastes to the first settler township. "Civilised people don't start conversations by shooting their visitors. What does this visitor look like?"

"It's a female Kryptonian," Allura says stoutly, "Zor's watching her through the bionscope, but he can't shoot worth zuurt shit. She's tall. Long red hair in a braid. The rest of her head's shaved. Tattoos on her arms. She's got a big rifle."

Jor-El jerks to his feet so quickly that he nearly upends the array, and Allura narrows her eyes. "You want us to shoot her?" 

" _No_ , Allura. I'll go and see what she wants. The two of you get back in here."

"We'll cover you from the platform," she disagrees, and sticks out her lower lip at him, daring him to contradict her. 

With a sigh, Jor-El concedes - as he usually does, once Allura sets her mind about something. It's usually the path of least resistance, as he's learned from bitter experience. If this is what having a younger sister is like, he's glad that he's never had the experience until now. A little.

Besides, if An'kka means him harm, a little cover fire wouldn't go amiss. 

An'kka has a new scar, a jagged, ugly blade wound that curves up under her jaw and almost to her left eye, but other than that, she looks exactly the way Jor-El remembers her: aloof, dignified and cold. Instead of persteel, she's dressed in the mismatched leather and scavenged metal get-up common to Strata 0 dwellers, though her rifle is worn prominently over her back. She narrows her eyes as Jor-El leaps down and approaches her, flicking her gaze briefly up to the makeshift sniper's nest, reinforced with cover, where the children are crouched.

"I should have known that you would survive," she begins neutrally. "You were always my best student."

"I thought that your best student was Faora."

"Faora-Ul has a few good traits," An'kka lifts one elegant shoulder into a shrug. "But I would not bet a credit on her if she were pitted against you." 

"Not that I'm not glad to see that you are alive, but how did you find me?" Jor-El asks, warily.

An'kka snorts. "If you want to hide, you should hide your ability, boy. That repairs deal that you brokered with Old Thar? Everyone knows that Old Thar's got a new partner, some runner from the Science Guild, someone who can fix anything." She barks out a low laugh. "I wormed out a few descriptions. It wasn't hard to run a conjecture. Then I did some digging around, some lying low." 

"And now?"

An'kka levels a steady glance at him, and runs a thumb up her cheek. "This was a gift from your bond-mate's toy soldiers."

Jor-El suppresses a shudder. "I don't-"

"The Academy's gone through a purge. I felt it was safer for me if I walked away from the hospital instead of trying to go back to my commission." An'kka taps at her wrist - there's a vambrace there, emblazoned with a red symbol, a simple rendition of a sun, solar flares uncurling from its core. "Do you know what this is?"

"You're one of the Solars."

"And do you know what they are?"

"I think they were probably one of the very many people who once tried to kill me," Jor-El says wryly. "But if you've come to finish the job, you should have brought back-up."

An'kka's lip curls, amused. "No. I joined the Solars because I was angry, at first. I needed their resources and their contacts. I wanted revenge. Besides, I knew that House Zod had no real compassion for the lower tier and the Houseless. Eventually, fighting a double fronted war - on Solton and internally - will make him squeeze them far more than your father's Council had. And so he has."

"You'll choose an enemy to fight a common enemy."

"The Solars aren't too bad. Most of them are just angry and misguided boys and girls," An'kka shrugs. "Though I did find the Kryptonian behind that exploding rifle matter. You remember. I broke his wrist. We're friends, now." 

"This is all very interesting," Jor-El notes warily, "But I'm not sure what it has to do with me."

"Because the Jor-El I knew," An'kka tells him quietly, "Wouldn't hide all the way out here and be content with mending bots and arrays for a living. And if you're looking to strike back against the people who took your family from you, then I suggest that we combine our efforts." At his silence, An'kka tosses him a small metal plate - an address is scratched over it. "Think it over, then look for me in the Ghost Market."

"You're confident that I'll accept."

"A few weeks ago, General Hu-Ul was assassinated," An'kka notes mildly. "Technically, House Ul should have fallen into disarray. But it turns out, surprisingly enough, that it has a store of unexpected funds, and Faora-Ul has emerged as the de facto head of her so-called Resistance. The Solars have spent all this time debating over whether to aid her or undermine her, and I think that they'll soon come to a decision. Perhaps you'll like to contribute."

Jor-El waits until he can't see An'kka's tall back any longer, then he climbs back up. Allura and Zor-El stare at him, both equally worried. "Who was that?" Allura demands first.

"She was one of my teachers at the Academy. The best."

"Are you going to go to the Ghost Market?" Zor-El asks, frowning. "You heard Old Thar before. It's gotten worse."

"I'm going to think about it, while the two of you," he ruffles their hair, grinning as they both squeak in indignation, "Are going to venture out into the waste with Ferro and find me a transcyc moderator. There was one in the blue and yellow servoship wreck an hour or so southeast of here."

Behind the children, the now considerably upgraded scannerbot, Ferro, beeps in acknowledgement. It's been armed with scavenged blaster muzzles and phaser cells, a nasty surprise for any unfriendly residents of the wastes. He couldn't really of good conscience send them out otherwise, no matter how accustomed Allura was to the wastes. There had been a few close calls, at the beginning.

"This isn't you sending us off so you can run off after that Kryptonian, is it?" Zor-El asks suspiciously. "Because you said that you would never leave us."

"I did, and I promised," Jor-El pats his shoulder. "I'll be here."

"Because if you aren't, we're just going to come after you and get into trouble along the way by ourselves," Allura points out matter-of-factly, and folds her arms over her chest.

"That's exactly why I won't be leaving without either of you, even if I do," Jor-El says dryly. "Now get going. I need that moderator."

Allura sticks out her tongue at him, but she hops off the sniper's nest, and after a moment, Zor-El and Ferro follow suit. Jor-El heads back into the silo, threading his way over the crates until he's back at the larger flat section of crates that now makes up his workshop. He passes the array that he was fixing to the end, where a smaller and more compact infogrid array is hooked up to a new generator. He starts it up, sends a message, and waits.

It doesn't take long - Faora-Ul's voice cuts back in, sounding clipped. "Jor?"

"I've just had a visit from An'kka." Swiftly, he outlines what he had heard. 

Faora-Ul had been the first person he had managed to contact when he had first acquired the miniature array from Old Thar, in exchange for a considerable cut of profits. It was, he decided, probably too dangerous to contact Dru-Zod. Surely Ter-Zod must have suspected _something_ after being unable to find Zor-El's body in the estates, and he couldn't risk the message being traced. He had Zor-El to worry about. 

"Hm." Faora-Ul can be heard pacing. "Do you trust her?"

"I trust no one now," he admits wryly. "Other than my friends."

"And to think it only took you half a cycle in Strata Zero to come to your senses," Faora-Ul retorts. "I don't need trouble from the Solars. But they've tried to kill you before. They'll never be fond of you, no matter what An'kka thinks."

"Your support is _so very_ appreciated."

Faora-Ul exhales, hesitating, then she adds, "Jor, I think you should know. Dru-Zod tried to reach out to me two klicks ago. He sent me a message, requesting that we meet. I ignored it."

"Faora-"

"I know that he saved you and your brother," Faora-Ul mutters, "He'll happily burn Krypton down if it would save your life. Outside of that, I don't trust his motives. Or his timing. I'm just about to open re-negotiations with House An."

"You need an insider."

"I already have my spies."

"None so closely placed," Jor-El counters. "But it's your call." That's what they've agreed, after all. Faora-Ul handles topside.

"All right," Faora-Ul notes grudgingly. "If I do meet him, though, do you want me to pass him a message?"

There are a hundred things that Jor-El wishes to say, a hundred sentiments, but after a long silence, he swallows. Such words will only lose their meaning in relay. "No." Someday he will say them himself to Dru-Zod, when this is over. 

"You do know," Faora-Ul adds, even more quietly, "That you could always come back up here. With our funds, I've reinforced the Ul estates. You could-"

"I see it's now 'our' funds, is it, rather than just mine?" Jor-El says wryly. He carefully doesn't add that despite Faora-Ul's precautions and her reinforcements, her father had still been slain, his jumpship exploding into a brilliant whorl of flame on his way back from negotiations with House Wan-Ro. "If it was only me, Faora-"

"I know." Faora-Ul sounds subdued: she's been quieter since her father's death. "Take care of yourself and your brother. I'll go and see what Dru-Zod wants."

XXIV.

It takes a while to get the new infogrid array towed over to the old transser hub, and longer to get it set up with the generators, but when it finally flickers on, there's a ragged cheer from the refugees. They jostle each other good-naturedly, but form a line - Jor-El nods at the Kryptonians appointed to keep the queue in check and heads down the ramp to Platform 5-A, where Zor-El and Allura are in a pack of children, shrieking and laughing at each other as they play tag over forgotten benches and signal arrays.

Around him, the old hub has been shored up and cleared out, relinked through a pirate core of his own design to an underground energy sink. It's thievery, technically, but Faora-Ul's arranged for the deficit to be patched up at a separate sector, so the energy supplier is none the wiser and the source leech remains secret. 

He checks the core casing and the latest diagnostic anyway, just in case. Cables run out from it along the walls, affixed with brackets, to string lights through the transser hub, to the shelters set up along the platforms with old tarps and scavenged metal sheets. Despite the repair of the waste disposal systems that he had supervised and the filtration systems, the hub still smells of far too many Kryptonians living together in far too small quarters. 

There's a squeal from the children - Allura has triumphantly pounced on her prey, and the tag game reluctantly resets, the children shuffling back into their groups. From his team, Zor-El briefly catches Jor-El's eye and grins at him before turning back to talk to his friends. On the outskirts, Ferro hovers, occasionally beeping disapprovingly. 

The refugee camp has been weeks of hard work, not only in set-up but in cleaning out the area around it of roving gangs, but this, Jor-El thinks, is what makes it worthwhile. 

He's still watching when An'kka materialises next to his shoulder. "I should have known that you wouldn't have been idle."

"How did you get past the gate?"

"I told the guards that I was your friend." She shrugs. "They're too trusting."

"I'll let them know," Jor-El notes dryly. "They're not soldiers."

"Hn."

"They're all that these people have." Jor-El pushes away from the core. "What do you want, An'kka? I think it's obvious what my answer is. I like you, and if it was just me, I might have agreed to go to the Ghost Market to see the Solars' offer. But since it isn't-"

An'kka huffs. "Are all these people refugees?"

"Many of them are from Houses that have nowhere else to turn. With energy streams shut off topside," Jor-El shrugs, "They had to move. Looters and gangs are growing more savage on the upper levels, especially after the Enderscore rallies." 

According to the refugees, tightening energy rations had forced a considerable fraction of the Kryptonian police corps to resign or work for nothing, and the effect had been devastating on the Houses and families which didn't have the funds to employ private security. 

"Chaos mirrors chaos," An'kka points out. "Civil war isn't healthy for anyone."

"I should know," Jor-El notes softly. Even now, even after half a cycle, the loss of his family remains an aching wound in his existence that still rears up raw now at the worst of times. 

"Who's the girl?"

"A friend. She helped us out when we first came to Strata Zero." Allura had seemed unfazed when Zor-El had finally told her which House they were from, which told Jor-El far more than anything else how long the poor child had been living down in Strata 0. "I think that her parents probably fled here from the upper levels, cycles ago during the first drastic energy ration cuts, escaping debtors. They didn't survive. She's been living by herself since."

"Impressive," An'kka concedes. 

"She's a good kid," Jor-El agrees. 

Over at the platform, Allura ducks away from a tackle, leaping lithe and effortless up from a bench and over another child, grinning madly as she does. Zor-El whistles, and a child jumps at Allura from behind her, but she's already dodging out of the way, using part of a defensive kata that Jor-El had taught her and his brother, darting up onto a crate and sticking out her tongue at the tagging team. 

"You've trained her." 

"Only a little." Jor-El takes a breath, pulling the defensiveness from his tone. "I've been teaching them other things. Basic engineering, for one. I wanted to keep Zor's mind off… everything."

An'kka snorts. "I suppose that I'm not surprised that you picked up a stray. You were always sentimental."

"She's a _friend_ ," Jor-El corrects. "Besides, Zor's rather attached to her. Having someone around whom was his age helped, I think." It had still taken Zor-El _weeks_ to stop waking up crying from his nightmares, but still. Every little inch helped. "How's Lor?"

"Dead," An'kka says curtly. "He was on the last Solars raid. They thought that they could weaken House Zod by targeting its storage silos." She exhales angrily. "They wouldn't listen to me, and Lor secretly went with them when I was occupied arguing with Matt'a. That's the Solars' leader."

"I'm truly sorry to hear that, An'kka," Jor-El says softly. "I liked him. And he once saved my life."

"No sorrier about it than I."

"Was that why you decided to finally come and look for me?"

"Not entirely." An'kka narrows her eyes. "Help me end this, Jor. The Solars still have enough pull with the lowest tier Houses and the Houseless. They can get enough numbers to cause some serious hurt to House Zod and its allies. They can hit soft targets if they're supported by your tech, or Faora's troops."

"I don't make weapons."

An'kka tips her head at Ferro, which is following Allura, still beeping agitatedly at the rough and tumble. "Oh, and those blaster converts on that bot are just for show, are they? Call it what you want, but we need you. And you need us. These families can't stay here forever. Neither can you - or your brother. Or your new friend."

"I came down to Strata Zero to protect my brother," Jor-El says flatly, "Not to lead a revolution."

"Call it what you wish," An'kka shakes her head, her thick hair bobbing. "But you know that it's one and the same." 

Jor-El exhales. "I need a gesture of faith. These people need some basic supplies. Medicine, food. I can't fix everything with my tech."

"I'll talk to Matt'a."

"Good! It'll be a start."

"Any more requests?" An'kka drawls.

"An'kka," Jor-El notes mildly, "I'm not looking to arm a group of terrorists, no matter how prettily they dress up their motives. But if I'm convinced that it's a group of citizens who are resolute about helping _people_ , and not just whether not a particular Kryptonian is highborn or lowborn - that's something else altogether. If I'm going to arm some people, I want to be assured that they won't form a militia after the fact, when the problem is gone. Understand?"

"I understand." An'kka claps him on the shoulder. "This is why you will always be the better student, Jor. You're too stubborn to change."

XXV.

Faora-Ul sounds distracted when she contacts him next: wherever she is, there's an echo, and she's walking - she's speaking to him over a tessebot, probably. "Dru-Zod informed me that House Zod is going to make a push towards Solton. Probably after the next half cycle. They're brokering a no-interference compact with the rest of the Oorn-Zone."

"Don't help the state that's seceded or else?" 

"More or less." Faora-Ul barks a laugh. "Once they make their push, that'll be our cue."

"And you don't think that somehow, _General_ Ter-Zod would _not_ have thought of this contingency?"

"He has a pretty impressive plan to ensure that we never find out about the outflow," Faora-Ul tells him. "He was going to step up hit and run attacks and the assassinations. Try to push us onto the defensive until he's finished with Solton."

"Running two aggressive fronts? That's risky."

"I think he's growing desperate," Faora-Ul says triumphantly. "I think we're going to get our chance."

"Still, at even a whisper of trouble he'll withdraw to House Zod," Jor-El muses, "Unless…" 

Unless there's a distraction. One that's unexpected enough, and threatening enough, that House-Zod won't be reinforced. Sleight of hand.

"I know that silence," Faora-Ul sighs. "You've come up with one of your ludicrous ideas, haven't you?"

"I can't really take full credit for this one," Jor-El admits, and he tells her about it.

"You're insane," she tells him sourly, after a few minutes, "And it's not only never going to work, you're going to get us _all_ killed."

"I've had this conversation with you before, I think."

"Why are we friends?" Faora-Ul asks the world, exasperated, and sighs. "All right. I'll make sure that we'll be ready on our end. Keep me posted."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> School's started up in earnest, so I'm unsure whether I can keep up the usual update speed. Will see.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A two month timeskip...

XXVI.

The main perk of relocating to the Ghost Market is also its disadvantage: to put it simply, Jor-El did rather miss living around people, safety problems aside. He had been used to the ever-present retainers in House El, and beyond that, grown used to the huge number of cadets when he had been in the Academy. Living out in the waste just with Allura and Zor-El was often… lonely.

Trips to the refugee centres didn't count - he was never there for more than a few hours at a time. The Solars' base in the Ghost Market, on the other hand, is full of people, all the time, and it is run rather like the Military Academy, neat and structured, built into what looked like an actual abandoned old military complex. Jor-El rather suspects An'kka's hand at play in the improved discipline. The guards posted to the entrance of the labs salute haphazardly when he exits - a pair of young Kryptonian boys, barely as old as Jor-El himself - and he salutes back wryly. To think that only two weeks ago he had been seen more or less as the enemy-

An'kka is waiting for him as he rounds out towards the practice ranges. Allura and Zor-El are visibly the youngest in the small class, and although Jor-El had objected to them joining target practice at first, at least it is something fairly harmless that occupied their time. He nods at An'kka, and she motions for him to walk with her, turning on her heel and heading briskly towards the command quarters. 

"What is it?" Jor-El asks, arching his eyebrows. 

"I've forgotten how frustrating it is to deal with the young," An'kka begins by saying curtly, "Especially boys your age. Because as sensible and as intelligent as you can be, your gender still prompts you to do the most ridiculous things." 

"All right," Jor-El notes dryly, "What did I do to offend you this time?"

"Not you," An'kka scowls. "You'll see. And you're lucky that I was there to put the fix in."

He tries pestering An'kka for details the rest of the walk to his newly allocated office, but she ignores him with the stern determination of a barracks sergeant, and when they're finally at his door, she glances briefly down the corridor before pressing her palm to the newly installed DNA lock. 

There's a guest inside, standing with his back to them, hands crossed behind him, almost at parade rest as he studies the view of the open bazaar under Jor-El's office window, dressed unassumingly in a faded sleeved gray tunic, breeches, and knee-high boots, visibly armed - a blaster's holstered at his hip. He turns when they step in, and for a moment, Jor-El's heart leaps to his throat.

It's _Dru-Zod_. 

" _Dru?_ " Jor-El hisses, incredulous, when the door slides closed. "What are you _doing_ here?"

"I should say the same," Dru-Zod retorts, hands clenching. "You should be _hiding_ , not-"

"I _am_ hiding! _You_ should be-"

" _Quiet_ ," An'kka snaps, and they both fall silent automatically, drill-trained. "Dru-Zod. One of the best I've ever trained. Have you learned nothing?"

"I had my reasons," Dru-Zod mutters, though he doesn't meet her eyes.

"Caught him trying to sneak into the southern perimeter," An'kka tells Jor-El curtly.

"I wasn't _trying_ to sneak in," Dru-Zod corrects, "It was a successful breach." 

"He almost reached your turret field," An'kka continues, and Jor-El grimaces. "So I think I deserve some thanks for ensuring that he didn't end up painted over the blast wall."

"I know how to evade turrets," Dru-Zod begins stubbornly, and Jor-El sighs.

"An'kka, thank you. Um. Could I trouble you to, um-"

"I'll step out," she agrees, with a snort, "And I'll get him out of here again when you're done. Get a message to me. Try not to get yourself strangled. And you," she adds, eyeing Dru-Zod coolly, "Stop thinking with your prick."

Jor-El lets out a startled laugh, but An'kka's already letting herself out of his office, even as Dru-Zod sputters in indignation, red-faced. Once they're alone, Jor-El steps forward, but Dru-Zod holds up a hand.

"We should talk. First."

"Before doing what exactly?" Jor-El prompts archly, but Dru-Zod scowls at him, refusing to be baited.

"What are you _doing_ with the Solars?"

"I have a plan." 

"Of course you do," Dru-Zod drawls bitingly, "You always have a 'plan'. Do I get to hear about this one?" 

"It's better if you don't," Jor-El says evasively, and holds up his palms when Dru-Zod reddens. "Trust me, Dru."

"Does Faora-Ul know of the details of this plan?"

"She does," Jor-El concedes, then adds quickly, when Dru-Zod sucks in a quick breath, "But only because she plays a part in it."

"And I don't?"

"You're already playing yours."

Dru-Zod narrows his eyes, his mouth setting into a thin line. "Faora-Ul has been mixed up in your affairs since the beginning, has she not? Since the start of your term in the Academy?"

"Well, yes-"

"You've been to her estates?"

"Only once, and not for very long. Dru-"

"And I suppose," Dru-Zod continues flatly, "That you are also the source of House-Ul's surprisingly deep pockets?"

"I needed a distraction when I was in the Capita building," Jor-El explains, "So I gave her a hundred million credits."

"A hundred _million_ -" Dru-Zod cuts himself off stiffly, straightening up, his expression growing hard. "Just like that?"

"She's a friend."

"That's not the sort of easy credits to give between friends."

"It's only credits," Jor-El shrugs, trying to parse Dru-Zod's sudden change in mood. "What's wrong, Dru?"

"I admit that I've begun to wonder," Dru-Zod notes coldly, "Whether I've been played as a fool." When Jor-El only stares at him blankly, he adds sharply, "It's obvious that you… trust Faora-Ul more than you trust _me_."

"That's not true-"

"Then why did you not try to contact me all of this half cycle?" Dru-Zod snaps, "You've been in contact with Faora-Ul, have you not?"

"Yes but-"

"And the only indication that I had that you were alive at all," Dru-Zod bites out, "Is when you finally did enter the Ghost Market two weeks ago."

Jor-El frowns at him, his mind turning over a wash of possibilities, then he growls, "Did you put a _tracker_ on that map beacon?" _That_ explained the green marker-

"Not a tracker, just a signal amp that would ping me when you reached the Ghost Market-"

"Signal amps can be traced!" Jor-El exhales. "I can't believe this. I had _Zor-El_ with me, Dru. What if your father had found it?"

"I wanted to know if you were _safe_." 

"You _said_ that you knew that I would be!" 

"It was just a small reassurance," Dru-Zod retorts stonily, "That I would _not_ have needed had you _deigned_ to contact me once you had access to an infogrid array." 

"I didn't want to compromise your position-"

"I would rather have lived this half cycle watching for tripwires," Dru-Zod snaps, "Than spend it wondering whether you were still alive! And then I find out that you've been making plans with Faora-Ul, _without_ me, all along and-"

" _Dru_ ," Jor-El interrupts. "Deep breath. Please." Dru-Zod glowers at him, but says nothing, and this time, he doesn't protest when Jor-El walks into his personal space, though he doesn't react when Jor-El runs hands up the tunic to his shoulders. The fabric's thin enough that he can feel the firm outlines and dips of Dru-Zod's flesh, under his palms, and it presses a warmth in his belly that he tries to ignore.

He might drive Dru-Zod to madness, Jor-El thinks, but the effect is entirely mutual. If he could, he'll stay like this forever, even with the weight of everything that has happened between them. In the light of that quiet knowledge, his irritation feels petty.

"Dru," Jor-El murmurs, and he gets his palms up over Dru-Zod's cheeks, over his harsh cheekbones, "Less than a cycle to go." 

"Perhaps you'll rather be promised to Faora-Ul," Dru-Zod mutters, still unwilling to let go of his temper. Jealousy's not a good look on him - it brings murder to his habitually severe expression, a wounded cast to his eyes that promises mayhem rather than vulnerability, but Jor-El isn't intimidated in the least. He's never been frightened of Dru-Zod. 

"Perhaps I'll rather that my _bond-mate_ explain what he's doing down in the Ghost Market, where the price on his head is rather respectable."

"I'm not your bond-mate," Dru-Zod retorts, though some of his aggression eases.

"Surely it's obvious that it's only a matter of formality." When Dru-Zod doesn't answer, Jor-El notes dryly, "It happens to be obvious to everyone else, _a'shara_." 

Dru-Zod scowls at his use of High Kryptonian. "Don't call me that. You have no-"

"I have every right." Jor-El interrupts. "Of what significance is a ritual and a set of words? Perhaps it was fate that cleaved us together at the start, but we have grown beyond fate," he gentles his voice, as he presses a thumb briefly to the edge of Dru-Zod's set mouth, "I think that time has already bound us together more closely than ritual and ceremony ever could."

"Again you speak heresy," Dru-Zod mutters, though his shoulders relax, and his hands creep tentatively to Jor-El's hips. "I came to the Ghost Market to see if you were still alive. Not as quickly as I would have liked. I had to wait until my father was distracted."

"And you broke into the Solars' base because…?"

"Because I thought it possible that you were dead, your body looted," Dru-Zod growls, and his eyes are haunted even if his face remains impassive, "And if that was the case, then I fully intended to take the price of your blood out of the hide of your murderer."

"Reckless."

"Hardly." 

Jor-El opens his mouth to argue, then he forces himself to calm down, stroking his hands back down to Dru-Zod's shoulders, shaking his head slowly. They could argue these points for the whole klick, waste what little time they had together. "I'm sorry," he says finally. "I should have tried to send you a message. Through Faora-Ul, if nothing else. I've missed you."

Dru-Zod stiffens at the mention of Faora-Ul's name, but he nods stiffly, his hands sliding over to the small of Jor-El's back, and to Jor-El's surprise, Dru-Zod adds gruffly, "I'm sorry as well. For the insinuations." 

"How long can you stay?" It seems natural to step the rest of the way, until they're curled in each other's arms, Dru-Zod's mouth buried against his temple, his breath shaky against his ear. 

"Not long." Dru-Zod murmurs regretfully, and he doesn't try to pull back when Jor-El brushes soft open-mouthed kisses up his jaw to his lips. They kiss, slow and hungry, until the infogrid array that Dru-Zod has pressed him against beeps for his attention, then shrills, and when he pulls apart long enough to glance at the message, he sighs, reluctant. An'kka's growing less and less polite: it seems Allura and Zor-El are pestering her about where he's gone.

"It won't be safe for me to come back down here again," Dru-Zod says, as he eyes the message. 

"I know." 

"Are you sure," Dru-Zod adds then, though there's no accusation in his tone this time, "That I'm not to know about your plans?"

It's tempting to tell him everything, as it always is, but Jor-El only smiles wryly. "It'll be easier. I'm sorry."

"No. I should trust you," Dru-Zod brushes his lips over his forehead, "Even as I have asked you to trust me."

"Dru-"

"When we meet again, a'shara," Dru-Zod presses a kiss over his mouth, hard and all too brief, "Rao willing, when we do, it will be under the sun."

XXVII.

It's nearly half a cycle since An'kka's request in the wastes by the time Jor-El's confident enough of his progress to invite Faora-Ul down to the Ghost Market to inspect it, and she's skeptical still, even when he demonstrates the latest prototype. "There're far too many variables."

"Nothing in life is certain," Jor-El shrugs, "Besides, An'kka and the Solars are confident."

"Yes," Faora-Ul notes sourly, "Your naivety is frighteningly contagious."

Around them, the ranks of scientists and engineers that he's provided with enough rudimentary skills to help with his project work furiously on, only occasionally glancing up at Faora-Ul and her helmeted guard. The workshop has spilled into the courtyard, with lengths of weatherproof canvas draped between windows and struts, and despite the cooling vents the lab is still warm enough to sweat in. Faora-Ul shifts, grimacing, but she'll probably rather lose an arm than admit discomfort. 

She does look relieved when he leads her out of the workshop and into the relatively colder corridors, heading up towards his office. "How are preparations on your end?" he asks, as they walk.

"With the escalation of the Solton conflict, reliable mercenaries are not in quick demand," Faora-Ul shrugs, "No matter how many credits you throw at good brokers. But I think that we will manage."

"We'll need the numbers," Jor-El says doubtfully, as they step out onto the second level of the Solar base. "Otherwise the Solars' teams will be on their own."

"They have your tech."

"They have barely half a cycle's worth of An'kka's training."

"She's a good teacher," Faora-Ul notes, clearly disinterested in the welfare of a mob of Houseless and low-tier House Kryptonians. 

"Still, I'll like the reassurance." Jor-El narrows his eyes slightly. "Their ranks have been bolstered by refugees. Civilians. We need a city to return to when we suceed."

"What do you suggest?" Faora-Ul drawls. "The numbers are not there. Believe me, I've tried." 

They reach his office, and he lets them in, even as her guards wait outside. They're probably only for show, Jor-El notes, as they fall to attention as the door closes. Faora-Ul's very likely more deadly than they are.

Or perhaps they aren't. He's all too aware that despite his best efforts, the scale of the changes wrought in the Dreaming City are still beyond his entire purview. "The police corps."

"What about them?"

"Find the defectors. Buy them."

Faora-Ul scowls. "You know well enough that many of them have turned into bandits."

"Offer them amnesty. And above all, offer them hope." Jor-El points out. "They'll be hungry for it."

"I don't inspire, I intimidate," Faora-Ul corrects, though her lip curls tightly. "Perhaps you should try it." 

"With my 'contagious naivety', you mean?" Jor-El grins, and Faora-Ul rolls her eyes. 

"Just so. I've had some people keep an eye on the roving gangs on Strata One and Two. I'll give you more information. _You_ can talk to them if you need muscle to coddle your Houseless rebels. _I_ have my hands full freezing Ter-Zod's political support."

"You mentioned before that the second tier Houses were about to swing their support behind you."

"I said that Severan said that it was _possible_ ," Faora-Ul corrects, "But unfortunately, it's just as possible that House Ul's name is not quite great enough to warrant such a show of political risk." She sniffs as she says this, looking briefly disgusted. "Old men in their ivory towers."

"They're all frightened." 

"The name of the House of El would pull weight," Faora-Ul notes mildly. 

"And paint a target on our backs before we're ready," Jor-El shoots back, and Faora-Ul sighs. 

"I know." 

There's a strain to her face now that makes her look older than she is, and the upright curve to her back looks enforced rather than natural. Politics and the death of her father has aged Faora-Ul out of the last of her childhood, even as the death of his family has burned him of his: this is a war fought by children dragged all too soon and unwillingly into their prime, and they _must_ win. There is little other option.

"Just hold them off, at least," Jor-El says soothingly, "Keep them doubting enough to prevent them from lending their full support to Ter-Zod. When we're done, it won't matter as much."

"You're doubly naive if you think that this will change anything, even if we succeed." Faora-Ul mutters, though she nods.

"I have faith."

"So does your bond-mate," Faora-Ul notes sourly, "He contacted me again yesterday. Tried to sniff out what we were doing."

"Again?" Dru-Zod could be remarkably patient when he wanted to be. Jor-El found that he was grinning, pleased, despite everything. Oversoul, but he has _missed_ Dru-Zod.

"You're grinning like an idiot," Faora-Ul tells him irritably. "I told him to mind his own business. But the push for Solton is coming quickly. Ter-Zod's almost finished with his preparations. That's why I had to come down here to see if _you_ were ready."

"We will be." 

"That's not," Faora-Ul points out, "A confirmation."

"It's a promise," Jor-El concedes. "In any regard, he'll need to be fully deployed in Solton before we can act. So we have some leeway."

"A small window," Faora-Ul shakes her head. "Remember Yangton? House Zod is not given to long campaigns, Jor. Whatever Ter-Zod plans for Solton, it'll be swift. And if he wins in Solton, we'll lose all support from the second-tier Houses. Politically, House Zod will become unassailable."

"Nothing's unassailable," Jor-El notes, with a wry twist to his mouth. "I should know." House El had thought itself untouchable for _centuries_. 

Faora-Ul sobers quickly. "Yes," she agrees, if clearly awkwardly, then she sighs. "But I would prefer not to sabotage our chances. We've made enough sacrifices."


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even the best of plans tend to have unexpected flaws.

XXVIII.

Jor-El had expected to feel nostalgia when the cloaked, converted servoship rose up past Strata 0 and into the sun, but all he feels is a sense of nervous anxiety. Restlessly, he double checks the controls, watching for traffic: out of the cockpit, the Dreaming City seems subdued. The usually endless ribbons of traffic weaving around the spires are thinner than usual, and if he looks - Rao help him, but he can't help looking - to the west, the once proudly visible spires of the House El estates stand dark and silent.

He swallows against the bubble of grief in his throat, and closes his eyes until the sting is gone. He has work to do. 

Pulling on persteel feels unfamiliar and familiar all at once, and he clips each piece into place with a wry sense of _returning_. He's been more engineer than soldier all these past months, but he supposes that a part of him had merely lain dormant. He hesitates as he buckles on the shoulder pieces, pressing his fingers to the blank space over his chest where his House insignia would normally sit, then he sighs, and pulls on a helm, the visor going opaque. The pulse rifle at his back is set to stun, and the weight, like the armor, feels familiar and unfamiliar against his spine. 

He checks on Zor-El and Allura just before he reaches their destination. They're still where they should be, safe in the Solars' base with the rest of the non-combatant refugees, and he breathes out. The turret field and Ferro should keep them safe, hard as it was to leave them behind. He hadn't ever been more than a short walk away from either of them for all of this past cycle. 

The servoship lands on the planarform quietly before it uncloaks, and on the planarform, the waiting squad flinches. Faora-Ul strides out from their ranks as Jor-El disembarks, and they clasp hands briefly, tightly.

"This is the most insane thing that I've had to do yet," she tells him, as they head over to her squad. Tessebots are already floating out from his servoship, heading to the blast-jammed doors at the end of the planarform, settling beside the DNA plates and starting override procedures. 

"When did you trigger the alarm?"

"Few minutes ago, as per your suggestion." Her helmet is also opaque, but he can sense her frown. "When does the rest of your plan kick in?"

"You'll know, I suspect," Jor-El replies, and grins behind his helm as Faora-Ul stiffens in irritation. "Soon. It can't be rushed."

"I've never been here before," she admits, as she tilts her chin up, tracing the graceful pearlescent dome of the Council's ex cathedra, the elegant sweeps of its projections and spires. "You always take me to the _nicest_ places."

"I don't have another hundred million to give you," Jor-El notes dryly, and then he tilts his head, as from below, then around, then from behind the door, there's a sudden klaxon of alarms, a shrill whine of warning to call all remaining respectable Kryptonians back indoors.

Faora-Ul's looking past his shoulder, and Jor-El turns. The Council's spire is high enough for them to see past the other, lower spires towards the Wall, where just beyond, a gigantic fleet of combat ships have just skipped out into the air, ranks and ranks of blue and gold, all Solton colours. The systems are holding well: there's no distortion that he can see as the frontmost ship fires a seeker missile, that angles ahead of it to impact in a spray of shrapnel and energy spikes over the barrier shield around the Wall. 

"Impressive," Faora-Ul murmurs, stepping forward, as behind her, the squad murmurs among itself. "All these from the wrecks you salvaged in Zero?"

"And the very latest in holographic tech," Jor-El notes modestly. Studying hologram projection tech had been part of his interest in AIs, and every floating piece of salvage beyond the wall was equipped with as much projection tech as he could cobble together from the wastes or purloin from Stratas One and Two. As they watch, soldiers congregate on the Watches behind the walls, preparing the city's defences, calling in reinforcements from around the Dreaming City.

The first part of his distraction.

The tessebots at the door beep triumphantly, and the doors open, revealing an empty corridor. Faora-Ul makes a sharp gesture at her squad, and they fall into ranks, rifles armed. She glances briefly at Jor-El's rifle, set to stun, shakes her head, and starts forward, even as the bots flit through the door first, sensor arrays scanning the walls. 

They don't meet much organised resistance: there's chaos in the Council building, as all top level comms are jammed tight with the repeating message from 'Solton' coded in the fake fleet, instructing the Dreaming City to surrender. Still, the Council guards are trained well, and they take down a few hard pockets of resistance before they're through to the Wide Stair, firing at makeshift barricades as they go. 

The tessebots make equally short work of the main Council chamber's lockdown blast doors, and Faora-Ul strides up and kicks the doors open with her usual belligerent flair. Just within, Severan Sov-Tam stares at them, aghast, turning from where he stands before the gleaming row of golden thrones. 

"What… who are you? This is madness!"

"Stand down, Severan," Faora-Ul instructs, her tone clipped. "We have no quarrel with you."

" _Faora!_ " Severan Sov-Tam yelps, wide-eyed, but one of the Ul soldiers behind them steps forward at Faora-Ul's gesture, taking a firm hold of Severan Sov-Tam's shoulder. 

Over on the thrones, Council seems to be in session. Jor-El notes members from all the remaining Pure Line Houses in Ter-Zod's pockets: Vex, Ur, and Em, the other seats filled by second tier scions. In the central seat, where the Head of the Council would reside, Ter-Zod smirks at them, his long fingers steepled over his chest. 

"Well, well. Faora-Ul. I must say, I did not expect that you had this in you."

"Give it up, Ter-Zod." Faora-Ul's voice betrays nothing of her surprise - to catch Ter-Zod as well as the Council was a bit of a pleasant surprise. "You're outnumbered and outgunned. Solton sits on our borders, and my men have overrun the city's energy cores. We hold the heart of the Dreaming City." 

"If your victory is so absolute," Ter-Zod doesn't bother to get up, "Then I wonder why I'm still alive."

Faora-Ul's lips narrow, her pulse rifle aiming straight over at Ter-Zod. "Don't think that I'm not tempted."

"Oh, but I know that you are." Ter-Zod sweeps her squad curiously, then his gaze settles on Jor-El, glancing at the glow of his rifle, then he smirks. " _Ah_. Jor-El."

There's a gasp from Severan Sov-Tam, even as Jor-El takes in a slow breath and lets it out. "Ter-Zod."

"I've known for a time that you were alive. You see," Ter-Zod purrs, "My son is not as subtle as he thinks."

"It's not one of his strong points," Jor-El concedes. "Give in, Ter-Zod. Submit to judgment and to Kryptonian law. You'll get a trial. Representation. All of this last cycle must be made public." 

Ter-Zod laughs. "And there it is. Seyg-El and his principles, made reincarnate in his son. House El's eternal weakness."

"Some would see it as our greatest strength." Jor-El refuses to let his temper catch hold of his voice. "A Kryptonian with no principles is no better than an animal." 

Ter-Zod opens his mouth to speak, then he tilts his head, as though listening to comm chatter. When the message is finished, he frowns, straightening up in his throne. "Your people really do hold the energy cores," he concedes, sounding reluctantly impressed. "The Solars, I presume?"

"Does it matter?" Faora-Ul shoots back, even as Jor-El tries not to let the relief show in his poise. 

"A considerable achievement, given the enforced guards set on the core, automatic and Kryptonian," Ter-Zod glances over at Jor-El. "Even with your machines, an achievement. And all over so short a period of time."

"It's nice to see a little respect from you," Jor-El notes flatly, "Rather than the business end of a rifle."

"Your death will be a great waste," Ter-Zod shrugs, "But a necessary one. The Dreaming City was headed towards self-destruction. It had to be arrested in its tracks. Your family and its reputation was all that stood in my way." 

"It seems to have been accelerating towards self-destruction ever since," Faora-Ul retorts.

"Only with your interference, girl. If you had not chosen to stand against me, the Dreaming City would even now be at peace. But it is not yet too late to correct my oversights." Ter-Zod gestures, then, and the other Council members push up and away from their seats, with an uncomfortably familiar studied grace. "Kill them." 

The first 'Council' member darts forward, with his impossible speed, and Rao save them, _six_ Inkorp assassins! He should have known. Ter-Zod had always been far too quick an old opponent. 

Jor-El gets off a shot before the assassin is right in his face, and he only dodges a jab with the barest memory of a kata, twisting and firing nearly point blank into the assassin's back. Through the corner of his eye, he can see Ter-Zod heading briskly towards the emergency exit behind the thrones, and he shouts over to Faora-Ul, even as he watches her sweep the feet out from under the assassin against her, snarling as she sinks a pair of versteel blades into his back, her rifle long abandoned.

"Go! Go!" she yells back, and he starts forward, only for another Inkorp assassin to step back into his way. 

There's a reedy cry, and to his shock, Severan Sov-Tam has thrown himself at the assassin, unarmed, his soft hands flailing, and the assassin, surprised, actually struggles back, his knife flashing up but getting tangled in the awkwardly sweeping robes of House Sov-Tam. The assassin's distracted long enough that the Ul guard previously holding on to Severan Sov-Tam gets a pulse blast off, and the assassin collapses in a heap.

"Go, boy!" Severan Sov-Tam snarls at him, when Jor-El tries to help him up, and he breaks into a run, dodging pockets of vicious fighting until he's past the thrones, through the emergency door. 

He spares a brief thought for An'kka and Matt'a, each still holding their own at the energy cores, then for Faora-Ul, hoping that everyone is all right - then he runs up against the first set of Zod soldiers. Momentum and his tessebots make short work of them, and he's running now as he speeds past offices and balconies, towards the Council's private launch strip. 

Somewhat to his wary surprise, Ter-Zod is waiting for him, a blaster in his hand. "Shut down your bots, and throw your rifle over the side."

"You took the words out of my mouth."

Ter-Zod snorts. "Do you think that I would not have noticed my own son making a trip to the Ghost Market? Or his convenient disappearance, just after the raid on your House? I've seen the storm coming, boy. I have far more resources than you think, and I am older and more cunning than you and your friends. Two hours ago, my guards took Dru into custody." 

A cold finger runs down Jor-El's spine. "He's your _son_. You wouldn't-"

"As you said," Ter-Zod interrupts, "A Kryptonian with no principles is no Kryptonian at all, and in many ways," Ter-Zod bares his teeth, "Dru is just like his mother. Stubborn, single-mindedly shallow, easily fixated on the unimportant."

The thought, when it comes, is as unwelcome as it is horrific. "Dru's mother's accidental death-"

"I needed a successor, not a heretic," Ter-Zod says flatly. "And I have sought to educate Dru appropriately all his life. But it seems to me that the flaws in his character may be genetic, after all. A pity, and a waste of time, but perhaps his life may still be of service."

"If you would use your own _son_ for your means, you're no better than a _monster_ -"

"Your weapons, Jor-El. Do you value Dru's life, as much as he obviously values yours?"

Reluctantly, Jor-El drops his rifle, and the tessebots power down, settling on the launch strip. He puts up his palms, as the muzzle of Ter-Zod's blaster jerks up eloquently. "Let him go. He had no knowledge of all this."

"That much was obvious. As was your intention." Ter-Zod's lips curl, "Keep him ignorant and therefore, keep him innocent and left out of the fray? Your naivety is shocking, Jor-El. And although you do see widely, as your father did, you misunderstand as much as you see. Put these on," Ter-Zod reaches briefly into his ship, and tosses Jor-El a set of manacles. "And get into the ship." 

The manacles fasten over his wrists, the chain looping up to his neck, holding his hands in place, secure-locked. Gritting his teeth, Jor-El allows himself to be shoved into the ship, his chains fastened to the hull as Ter-Zod pads to the cockpit to set their course. 

"You're not going to kill me?" he asks, wary.

"Not yet." Ter-Zod replies, back turned, as the ship lifts into the air. "I still need a few details from you. Like the location of your brother."

"You won't get that from me."

"Not from you, perhaps," Ter-Zod turns then, and his smile is narrow and cold. "But I think that Dru knows where Zor-El is. And I also think that he won't be able to bear watching you get carved apart, hn?"

Jor-El shudders, wide-eyed. He's sure of himself, certain that he can withstand anything to keep Zor-El safe, but Dru-Zod had no such priorities. Dru-Zod would- "He won't tell you. Once he does, you'll have no further use for us, and he knows that."

"Dru-Zod is still my only heir," Ter-Zod points out flatly. "And if he will not obey me out of respect, then," Ter-Zod shrugs, "For the first time in his life, perhaps, I hold his heart in my hands. You may be of more use to me alive."

"He loved you as his father," Jor-El retorts, sickened at the enormity of what Ter-Zod is suggesting, "And if you had wanted him to obey you then you should have treated him more like a son."

"Sentiment was ever the poison of your House," Ter-Zod snaps, "And I won't see it poison mine."

"You've poisoned your House by yourself. Stop this, General," Jor-El tries again. "You've lost control of the city's power cores. You've lost the Council. You've lost the support of the Kryptonian people. It's been a long game, but you've lost, and-"

"Be quiet," Ter-Zod's tone cracks like a whip, his face briefly contorting in fury before he looks away. "Your father was like this too, and your twin brother," he says viciously, turning back to the cockpit. "Reasonable to the bitter end. Your mother was the only one who tried to shoot me."

Ter-Zod's words twist like knives, and it's only through all his self-discipline that Jor-El manages to pull back the sting to his eyes, the pain in his chest; he grits his teeth, keeps his spine straight. He won't - he won't allow this. He won't allow hate to touch the last of his family's memory.

He's quiet until they land at the House Zod launch strip, but the distant sounds of the hybrid eyrie give him an idea. He whistles, as loudly as he can, and then he yelps as Ter-Zod backhands him across the face. "None of that." Ter-Zod instructs, as Jor-El staggers. "I know about H'Raka. Neither of you are as subtle as you think. Walk."

Jor-El hesitates. He's tempted to jump, if there's no option left but Zor-El's death, but he can't - he can't, if there's even a glimmer of a chance, if it'll keep Dru-Zod alive, if- 

"Walk," Ter-Zod commands, and he takes a reluctant step forward, only to hesitate. Something has burst out of the eyries, and as Jor-El jerks back to look, hoping to see H'Raka - no, it's _R'Druk_ , unsaddled, snarling a challenge as it darts up towards him, eyes fixed on Ter-Zod. Shocked, Jor-El stares - he's never been able to command R'Druk before - and Ter-Zod's equally frozen, though only for a moment before he whistles sharply himself. 

Another, bigger hybrid wings out from the eyrie, its scales mottled blue, and barrels straight into R'Druk, snapping and clawing. Ter-Zod's hybrid, perhaps. The battle's vicious, no holds barred; both hybrids bleeding and scratched within seconds, trying to tear at each other's flimsy wings. R'Druk's getting the worst of it - Dru-Zod's hybrid is smaller, and brilliant gashes of red have opened up over its flanks. Jor-El whistles, trying to get R'Druk to disengage, but the hybrid ignores him, snarling as it tries to get its teeth around the bigger hybrid's neck. 

Then a third hybrid darts out, scales bronzed like H'Raka's, but as big as R'Druk, and it screeches its fury as it charges Ter-Zod, wings mantled. This is M'Souk, Jor-El knows, without knowing how he does - and the hybrid's old, its scales flaked and white at its muzzle. It ignores the blaster pulse to its shoulder and chest, barrelling straight into Ter-Zod, its claws rending at him, and locked against R'Druk, Ter-Zod's hybrid wrenches free with a shrill cry, darting away towards M'Souk, all three forms locked in writhing battle as they fall in a tangle of scales and shredded wings, all the way down until they're lost to his sight. 

Shaking, Jor-El almost slips off the launch strip, as shocked as the House Zod guards at the end, but R'Druk lands beside him, squalling in triumph, nudging him. Cautiously, he retreats towards the jumpship, where he finds a set of scankeys to the shackles, then he backs out and pets R'Druk's bloodstained muzzle once his hands are free, steadying himself against the hybrid's bulk. "Where's… where's H'Raka?"

R'Druk lowers itself closer to the ground, an invitation for Jor-El to climb on, and he doesn't wonder at the oddity of it all - he pulls himself up and on even as the guards unfreeze themselves from the launch strip and start shouting at him. R'Druk darts off into the air, sweeping down into the eyrie, and this close, he sees that the entrances are all downward facing cave mouths, carved by claws and machines into the rock. The animal stink of the hybrids is far stronger here, but it doesn't make him reel, not any longer, even as R'Druk lands carefully and hauls itself up a short tunnel into a wider chamber. 

It's a nest - no, a stable, Jor-El decides. R'Druk's saddle sits untended on a rack, and the stable straw hasn't been cleaned recently. Dru-Zod's been under close watch longer than Jor-El had thought, perhaps. 

Jor-El lets himself down, stroking R'Druk's neck, looking around for something to bind the hybrid's wounds with - but R'Druk nudges him lightly, then proceeds to squeeze itself down a narrower corridor, heading through with scraping claws into a far larger cavern, cored out of the stone with machines - the overhead ceiling is a smooth dome. Other entrances dot the domed wall, some filled by hybrids that glance curiously at him, but Jor-El's eyes are drawn to the hybrid chained heavily to the ground, curled and unhappy.

H'Raka glances up at his whistle, and its wings arch up, gray tongue lolling out, nuzzling him as Jor-El stumbles close to check the shackles. It's an electronic lock, thank Rao - it takes him a while, especially with H'Raka's nudges and affections, to override the keycode - then H'Raka bowls him over to knock his helmet off and licks a wet stripe up his cheek the moment that it is free. 

"Hey, hey," he laughs, petting its cheekplate, "R'Druk helped too."

R'Druk grunts, clearly pleased with itself, even as Jor-El's comm link beeps. "Jor? Where in Rao's name are you?"

"I'm in the Zod estates," Jor-El replies, batting at H'Raka's snout as the hybrid licks him again. "Are you all right, Faora?"

"We've taken some casualties." Faora-Ul's voice is tight with pain, "And I'll recover. What are you - did you get Ter-Zod?"

"I think so." Jor-El swallows a hysterical bubble of laughter. "You won't believe me if I tell you. I've got a bit more business to attend to, then I'll meet you back at the Council."

"You're going to face House Zod's security by yourself?" Faora-Ul's voice rises, incredulous. "I'm heading over."

"No, you need to secure the Council building, as we planned. I can handle this myself."

"… Fine." Faora-Ul says curtly. "Stay in touch."

He taps his comm, patching in to An'kka. "Situation?"

"Stable," An'kka says curtly. "Matt'a took a few casualties, but they're holding position. We can hold out here for the whole klick if we have to, I think."

"Rao willing, it won't take that long." Swiftly, he fills An'kka in on what has happened, and what he's about to do next, and she sighs, the faint clicks of sound in his ear indicating that she's pacing. 

"House Zod has internal automated security, if I recall. I've been to the Zod estates once, with Trus-Vex. They chose security systems over bots."

"I'll get to an infogrid array. Thanks for the tip."

"Be careful," An'kka replies shortly, and signs off. 

H'Raka and R'Druk trail after him until he reaches the doorway into the estates, then they hesitate, whining. They can't fit past, and he strokes H'Raka's muzzle, then R'Druk's. "Go check on Ter-Zod," he murmurs, hoping that they would understand. "But try to stay out of sight." Jor-El follows this with a whistle, and H'Raka ducks its head with a snort, but turns briskly to head out and back into the large chamber. 

R'Druk hesitates, eyeing him with a chirp, and Jor-El pats its muzzle again. "We'll get him back," he promises, and R'Druk bumps its muzzle against his arm before turning to follow H'Raka.

The guard in House Zod is more skeletal than he recalls - most of the Zod forces are indeed off in Solton. Jor-El manages to get past most of the patrols, fumbling his way until he finds himself in a familiar corridor, leading to an old, familiar room. 

The irony's not beyond him - he grins as he glances over to the table where he once sat as a child, to the infogrid array to his right, where a different stack of slates sits, untended. It doesn't take much work to hack into the House Zod systems and find Dru-Zod, or control the internal turret systems to drive the soldiers out of the lower levels to keep them corralled in the upper barracks. Then he takes a deep breath, and pushes himself up from the array. He's a little afraid of what he'll find.

XXIX.

Dru-Zod looks so surprised to see him that Jor-El can't help himself: he grins, even as he tries to override the short-link grid that keeps the stat-field up around Dru-Zod's cell. Dru-Zod, thank Rao, looks unhurt, just pissed off, and that's - Oversoul - that's such a familiar look on him that Jor-El almost embarrasses himself by crying by the time the stat-field comes down and Dru-Zod steps out, jerking him over to crush him into a hug.

"Not quite under the sun," Jor-El murmurs, his voice still shaky. 

"How did you-" Dru-Zod sniffs. "R'Druk?"

"Yes." Jor-El finds that he's clutching Dru-Zod tightly, his breathing wavering, shattering, "I tried calling for help on… on the launch strip, I don't know why she responded, she's never listened to me before and-" 

"She knows you," Dru-Zod interrupts, nuzzling his cheek, then he stiffens. "My father-"

"I'm sorry, Dru." Jor-El doesn't try to look up. "I think he's… M'Souk attacked him, I think, it was a female hybrid, huge, some white scales, and his hybrid dived after them but I don't know whether-"

"Calm down. Shh." Dru-Zod pulls back just enough to tip up his chin. " _M'Souk_ attacked? Why in Rao's name would she do that?"

"I think… I think the hybrids understand sentiment," Jor-El says softly, and when Dru-Zod's expression twists, "I think that… I think that M'Souk has never been friendly to Ter-Zod, not since your mother's death, and I think that you've always suspected why." 

Dru-Zod shudders convulsively, his hands clutched tight over Jor-El's arms, then he sets his jaw as he leans his forehead against Jor-El's, with a harsh and rattling sound. "A House of butchers, you said."

"Not you." Jor-El strokes up his arms to his shoulders. "Not you." 

It's Dru-Zod who finally pulls back, his expression impassive as he presses his palm against Jor-El's back. "We should leave. Regroup with Faora-Ul. The soldiers may still be loyal to my father."

Jor-El passes Dru-Zod the spare blaster that he had found in the cell warden's quarters, and they ascend back up faster than he had come - Dru-Zod's clearly familiar with every inch of his estates. They get as far as the launch strip's reception hall before they're surrounded. Dru-Zod's reluctant to open fire against his own House, and they're marched outside.

Ter-Zod's hybrid is breathing its last, with thick, terrible gasps, its blood wet over the launch strip. Ter-Zod leans heavily against it, stroking its cheek plate, and his eyes are dark with anger as he glances up at them. Once of his arms are shredded to the bone, and he has deep gashes over his legs, but he's still, unbelievably, alive. 

A guard hands him a blaster, which he aims at them both. "Look what you've done," he tells Jor-El tightly. "I might have been inclined to be civilised before, but N'Vasa here has been my friend since my childhood."

"Father," Dru-Zod begins, his eyes hard, but the muzzle of the blaster points towards him.

"You lost the right to call me that the day that you chose this boy over your House."

"No," Dru-Zod agrees softly, then. "You haven't been a father to me for a long time." 

He drags Jor-El behind him abruptly even as he fires, and Ter-Zod drops as his blaster muzzle flashes. General Ter-Zod's blaster clatters on the ground, and as the soldiers around them shout, raising their guns - then it gets too crowded to think. H'Raka and R'Druk drop out of the sky, hissing and swinging their tails, snapping and clawing until the soldiers are driven back into the reception hall, ignoring blaster fire.

Dru-Zod staggers, wincing, and Jor-El realizes in horror that Ter-Zod's shot had hit, after all - there's blaster damage over Dru-Zod's shoulder, dangerously close to his heart and the nerve damage from the pulse shot is spreading: Jor-El whistles urgently to H'Raka before patching in to Faora-Ul. 

"Faora! I need - I need medical attention. Dru-Zod's been shot."

She rattles through a location promptly, even as Jor-El lifts Dru-Zod awkwardly onto H'Raka's back, balancing himself behind. It's cramped, and R'Druk shrills at them unhappily, but it follows as H'Raka leaps into the air at a nudge from Jor-El's knees. He keeps his arms around Dru-Zod's waist, trying not to panic - Dru-Zod's already unconscious and - Rao, _please_. He can't bear losing anyone else. Not Dru.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> epilogue~

.five klicks

Jor-El is in the middle of ironing out the new Council's strictures with Faora-Ul when his tessebot helpfully informs him that Dru-Zod is awake.

"That's not right," Jor-El frowns, reading the charts, "He's _supposed_ to be sedated."

"Too stubborn," Faora-Ul shrugs, without looking up from the tesseglyph console. "Well, go on, then. I'll attend to all this _real_ work by myself."

"I'll make it up to you," Jor-El offers, even though he's already backing towards the exit, and she rolls her eyes.

"You don't have another hundred million credits to give."

"And to think," Jor-El notes mournfully, "That after all this time, you're still fixated on credits instead of our friendship."

"Get _out_ , Jor." 

His House assets - what was left of them - were still mostly frozen until all the civil turmoil was settled, but some of Faora-Ul's war chest had gone towards cleaning out House El during the past week, and many of their surviving retainers had returned. Jor-El nods at familiar faces as he hurries through the elegant archways of his childhood, mostly already cleaned of blaster damage and septmines, almost back to normal.

Almost. 

The door to the infirmary is open, and the doctor from House Ul is within, fussing with a medical chart, even as on the bed, Dru-Zod seems to be trying to glare, without much success, at the two children sitting on the edge of the bed and staring at him. Drugs have made his stare unfocused, though he frowns at Jor-El as Jor-El lets himself into the room.

"Get these two brats out of here," he growls, even as the doctor hangs the chart slate back at the foot of the bed. 

"He's recovering well," the doctor tells Jor-El politely, possibly accustomed to recalcitrant military patients. "Just needs another week of bed rest."

"To the aether with bed rest," Dru-Zod snaps, though his words slur, and Allura giggles, growing louder when Dru-Zod tries glaring at her again. Jor-El hastily packs the doctor out of the room, then pads over to the bed. 

"I'm going to need to speak to Dru alone," Jor-El tells them mildly. 

"I was going to thank him for getting me out of here," Zor-El retorts, which makes Jor-El's eyebrows arch - he had always thought that day far too traumatic for Zor-El to remember. 

"And you have," Dru-Zod turns his gaze up to the ceiling, clearly embarrassed. It's not a proud day for him, Jor-El knows; not for anyone.

"And I," Allura kicks her feet out into the air briefly, "Wanted to see what Jor's bond-mate looks like. What? An'kka told me," she adds, when Jor-El arches his eyebrows. "His face looks like a hatchet. Do you really like him?"

"All right, you two," Jor-El notes, amused, as Dru-Zod scowls again from the bed. "Get out of here, please. Go and find An'kka."

The children mumble and protest, then Zor-El impulsively scrambles up to hug Dru-Zod tightly before slipping off to pad out of the room, trailed by Allura. Dru-Zod's stiffened up, slightly flushed, and he jerks his eyes back up to the ceiling, even as Jor-El scanlocks the door to the infirmary.

"That little girl is annoying."

"Allura? She's not so bad." 

"And Zor-El is very much like you were," Dru-Zod notes neutrally, as Jor-El settles down on the side of the bed.

"I know." Jor-El picks up Dru-Zod's palm, stroking the unresponsive fingers: the blaster shot had caused some possibly permanent nerve damage. Dru-Zod's expression goes impassive as he watches Jor-El rub his fingers over callused skin. Dru-Zod's gun arm. "Dru-"

"There's a chance that I'll recover some motor control," Dru-Zod says quietly, without looking at him.

"I know." Jor-El repeats. He also knows that even with the best med-tech and therapy available, it's unlikely from the charts that Dru-Zod will ever recover enough fine motor control to use a gun from that hand again. "It was… it was a reckless thing, what you did, he could have _killed_ you."

"Even if he had, H'Raka and R'Druk were close, they would have gotten you out of there."

"You think that I was worried about _myself_?" Jor-El demands, incredulous, "I spent the _entire_ evac trip thinking that you were going to _die!_ "

"So then," Dru-Zod's lip twists, "You know what that feels like."

"I can't _believe_ you," Jor-El snaps, "We were discussing _your_ remarkable lack of interest in self preservation and you want to bring up-"

"Why _were_ you in my House estates?" 

"Your father told me that he was holding you prisoner and-"

"And so you gave yourself up," Dru-Zod surmises bitterly, "Just like that." 

"I couldn't risk the possibility that he would hurt you."

"And what did you think would happen once he had both of us in his power, hn? If M'Souk and R'Druk had not intervened-"

"All right," Jor-El swallows his temper, breathes out, forces himself to relax. "This is ridiculous. We've defeated Ter-Zod's coup, regained control of the Council _and_ the city, and we're about to restart diplomatic negotiations with Solton. Why are we arguing? We've _won_."

"We're debriefing," Dru-Zod corrects, though there's the faintest curl to his mouth, and Jor-El climbs up, until he's straddling Dru-Zod's waist, and Dru-Zod's unresponsive at the first kiss, then his free hand curls up to Jor-El's arm, stroking. They kiss until Dru-Zod relaxes, until the restless wounded cast to his eyes has faded, and there's a tentative wonder to his touch again, a hungry press to his mouth.

.six months

"Congratulations," Lara Lor-Van tells him, when Jor-El finds her enjoying the view at the sunward terrace. Most of the guests are slowly leaving, and Dru-Zod's somewhere in the Great Hall still, renewing his House's acquaintance with the Pure Line Houses which had sided with his father. Jor-El isn't sure. He's not really in the mood for politics.

"I heard you the first time," Jor-El replies, though he grins, hopefully not foolishly. 

As much as he's told Dru-Zod repeatedly over the past half a cycle that the ritual's a formality, it's still a gratifying experience to have the words said, with Faora-Ul as their witness and Severan Sov-Tam as their promisor. The guests had been hugely varied, from members of all the Pure Line Houses to Jor-El's Houseless and low-tier House friends in the Solars, rather to Dru-Zod's irritation, but this is a new Krypton now. Their world's social order is resettling. It must. 

"You _are_ happy," Lara Lor-Van reaches over to squeeze his hand. "That's good. I used to be worried."

"I used to be worried too," Jor-El admits, squeezing back. "How _have_ you been?"

"Busy. Thank you for allowing the Zoological Science division to study the hybrids, by the way. They're _fascinating_ ," Lara Lor-Van's expression lights up, her eyes going slightly distant. "As you've said, they're highly intelligent. And your notes are as detailed as anyone could wish. I think we could make some noticeable headway on their language systems. I'll keep you updated, of course."

"Dru allowed that, not me," Jor-El corrects. 

"Sure he did."

"Maybe after considerable persuasion," Jor-El concedes. And persistence. And cajoling. The fact that the vets that had patched R'Druk up had been Lara Lor-Van's classmates also helped. Oddly enough - or perhaps not - House Zod didn't exactly have any vets in house. It seemed that the hybrids hardly ever got hurt, and minor ailments and hatchings were handled by stablehands. 

"I heard from Father that you'll be revamping the Exploratory Science division," Lara Lor-Van adds, with a wry smile. "I'm a little surprised. I thought that you had no funds left." 

"I still have a few credits here and there." Ter-Zod had drained House El of its liquid funds to supply his war, but Faora-Ul had returned what was left of the gift of credits, and besides, Jor-El wasn't particularly worried about finances. House El's wealth had been built on scientific patents: he's confident that eventually he'll again have the resources to do what he likes. 

"But you're not joining the division?"

"Not yet," Jor-El says, a little wryly, "I'm going to graduate from the Academy first."

Lara Lor-Van arches her eyebrows slightly in surprise. "You're still going to follow through with that?"

"Call it a need for completion," Jor-El shrugs. Besides, Faora-Ul was also going to re-enrol for the next cycle's intake. It should be interesting. "After that, we'll see. The Military's research wing is quite interested in new energy and material sources. It'll be a good place to work." 

And quite possibly a touch more relevant than Exploratory Science - not that he would say so to Lara Lor-Van. A cycle in Strata 0 had taught him more about the Dreaming City than much of the rest of his life preceding it. It was ridiculous, in a society as advanced as theirs, that people had to arrange their lives around what little energy they could earn. Poverty should be a pre-evolutionary concept.

"That's a pity," Lara Lor-Van smiles. "Father was hoping that you would join his team and start building spaceships. Explore the stars. Find out what happened to the colonists in the Expansionist Age, perhaps."

"I think Krypton has enough problems for now without trying to find out about our distant relatives," Jor-El points out wryly. "But I wouldn't rule out exploratory science altogether." 

"You mean, after you solve the energy and resources problem, _then_ you'll start work on hyperspace travel?" 

"That's not beyond the realm of possibilities," Jor-El notes archly, and Lara Lor-Van laughs, leaning against him as she used to when they were children; he curls an arm around her as they watch the red sun start to sink down over the clouds. 

"You know," she murmurs softly, "I overheard Father once telling my Mother that it was quite possible that we were going to be promised. The algorithms looked right, apparently."

"I know."

"Do you ever wonder what that would have been like?"

"I think," Jor-El murmurs gently, studying Lara Lor-Van's face, "That after any period of prolonged exposure to me, you'll have found out about so many of my character flaws that we'll no longer have been friends." 

Lara Lor-Van grins, elbowing him playfully in the ribs. "I _know_ about your character flaws, Jor. You like to talk too much. And you also have this remarkably annoying tendency to assume that you're always right-"

"That's because I am. Always right, that is," he tells her, and laughs when she snorts and elbows him again. "We'll have made a terrible hash of it," he adds, amused, "I'll have ended up in the Exploratory Science division from the start, or Experimental Physics, something similar. Wasted my time on whimsical projects. Krypton would run out of resources and explode and we'll end up being unable to do anything but launch any child of ours out into the stars in a small spaceship." 

Lara Lor-Van pulls a face. "What, all by himself? Ship technology has existed in Krypton for _centuries_. You could modify a jumpship and we could go with him."

"It'll be more dramatic that way," Jor-El tells her, with mock reproachfulness. "And besides, he wouldn't be alone. He'll have an AI with him. I'm close to a breakthrough on consciousness transfer."

"So you would have copied my consciousness?"

"I was thinking about copying mine, actually." 

"But I would have been his _mother_ ," Lara Lor-Van points out, "While you would only have been fit to put the very worst of ideas in his poor little unformed mind." 

"Dramatic necessity," Jor-El disagrees, and they bicker as they used to, all the way until Dru-Zod steps out onto the planarform and curls an arm possessively around Jor-El's waist. Jor-El doesn't need to look up to know that Dru-Zod's face would be carefully blank - ever since Jor-El had casually mentioned that Lara Lor-Van had once been the most compatible possibility for a bond-mate, he had always viewed her with suspicion. 

"Congratulations," Lara Lor-Van tells Dru-Zod, and he nods at her. Jor-El disentangles himself briefly enough to give Lara Lor-Van a hug, then she waves and heads off back into the House estates behind them. 

Jor-El nuzzles Dru-Zod's jaw briefly, then manages a brief kiss before Dru-Zod jerks back, with a quick glance back to the archway behind them. "I thought we had agreed that we wouldn't be demonstrating heresy in public."

"We're not in public."

Dru-Zod scowls at him, but allows another stolen kiss, still tense. "The others are leaving. We should rest."

"Soon." Jor-El leans against him, snaking his own arm around Dru-Zod's back. "In a way, it started here. This is where I first learned that you existed. My parents were discussing you." 

This doesn't help Dru-Zod's tension. Any mention of family would foul his mood: it had been months, and Jor-El knew that a part of Dru-Zod still mourned Ter-Zod. For two decades of his life, after all, Ter-Zod had been a father, of sorts - the only kind that Dru-Zod had known. One didn't let go of such things easily.

"Likely an unpleasant discussion, then."

"Probably as pleasant as our first visit must have been for you. I don't think you liked me at all."

"I always thought that my bond-mate would be a soldier, from one of the Military families," Dru-Zod murmurs. "It was a surprise." 

"You mean," Jor-El grins, "Like Faora, perhaps?"

The face that Dru-Zod pulls is hilarious. "No. Besides, you _are_ a soldier. A foolish one, but you're not incompetent."

"You need to work on your compliments, a'shara." Jor-El prods Dru-Zod, though he's still grinning as he says it, and this time, Dru-Zod is the one who leans over to kiss him.

Somehow they manage to stumble all the way to Jor-El's chambers without scandalising anyone. It's been months, but taking over his parents' chambers had felt _wrong_ , somehow, and they had even left Nim-El's rooms untouched. He wasn't ready yet to let all of them go, and neither was Zor-El. It's a sobering thought, each time he steps into his chambers, but today the weight of old memories struggles against the steady warmth of Dru-Zod's embrace and subsides. 

Dru-Zod tenses when Jor-El starts undoing the clasps of his jacket, his hands briefly frozen over Jor-El's hips, then it's a competition: they leave robes and jackets shed in a messy trail through to his bedchamber, and it strikes Jor-El that this is going to be the first time that he'll have ever seen Dru-Zod naked. Not out of lack of trying, of course, but Dru-Zod's steadfastly formal at times; he's still mumbling gasped protests as they end up tangled on the bed and kicking off their boots. 

This wasn't exactly how the vid he had seen had worked, but Jor-El finds himself fascinated by the pulse scar, the only blemish on Dru-Zod's skin: bioengineering had taken care of most of the minor scars that he might have picked up from the Academy. He runs his tongue over the whorls of scar tissue, encouraged when Dru-Zod hisses, licks and kisses the ridges until there's a hand planted firm over the back of his neck, Dru-Zod trying to urge him up for a kiss. 

He ignores him, rubbing his cheek over the roughened tissue, and Dru-Zod grunts, gasps, and finally grits out, " _Jor_."

Relenting, Jor-El leans up, and the kiss is frenzied, more teeth than tongue; Dru-Zod rolls them around until Jor-El is flat on his back, muffling a growl when Jor-El remembers the vid and spreads his legs, his knees bracketing Dru-Zod's waist. They haven't yet got their breeches off, but he can _feel_ Dru-Zod pressed against him, a hard and unyielding weight, and when he rolls his hips up, experimentally, Dru-Zod's breath leaves him in an explosive gasp and he startles. 

"I want to… I want to try something," Dru-Zod murmurs, and he's red-faced as he says it, unable to meet Jor-El's eyes.

"Whatever you like, a'shara."

Dru-Zod presses another, hard kiss against his mouth, then kisses down his neck, the bites and the press of his mouth ticklish at first, then delicious as he gets his teeth over Jor-El's pulse; when he groans and bucks, Dru-Zod hisses, grabbing for his hips to hold him down. "The sounds you make," Dru-Zod manages to gasp roughly, then he's licking down before Jor-El can respond, over his chest to a stiffening nipple and _Rao_ but the sensation of it, the wet press and deft twist of Dru-Zod's tongue, the faint rasp of teeth as he sucks and-

"Good?" Dru-Zod whispers, through his growing haze of pleasure. Jor-El has his hands clutched over Dru-Zod's shoulders, and at his dazed nod, Dru-Zod takes his time, experimenting, licking until Jor-El is almost uncomfortably tender before starting all over again on the next; he's whimpering and fighting against Dru-Zod's grip, pleading garbled half-words. He feels Dru-Zod smirk against him, his touch growing more confident as he shifts further down Jor-El's skin, though the first curious dip of his tongue into Jor-El's navel makes him yelp and twist, shoving at Dru-Zod's shoulders. 

"Tickles," Dru-Zod concludes, and smirks again, though he doesn't repeat the gesture. There's something almost feral in his hunger as he looks up at Jor-El from between his spread thighs, and Jor-El hopes that his own desire is as open on his features as Dru-Zod's. 

"More," Jor-El instructs, and his voice is cracking around the edges; Dru-Zod nods, his fingers unsteady as he drags down Jor-El's breeches, impatiently chucking them off the bed, then grasping Jor-El's arousal carefully in his hand, openly curious. 

His scrutiny is salacious and frustrating all at once, and Jor-El whines and pushes pointedly into Dru-Zod's grip, groaning when his fingers tighten, the hand of his damaged arm planted for support beside Jor-El's waist. It's uncomfortably dry, but even before Jor-El can say anything, Dru-Zod's _bending down_ , by the Oversoul, shifting to press a curious lick over the very tip. 

The taste probably doesn't suit; Jor-El badly manages to stifle his stuttered moan, even as Dru-Zod pulls a little face, but before Jor-El can pull Dru-Zod back up, he's tried another lick, down the underside, and then a harder one, flattening his tongue and then he's laving Jor-El in earnest, and it's good, Rao save them, so _good_. How is this heresy? The sensations are - Rao - it's like no pleasure he's ever felt, especially when Dru-Zod closes his hand again over his freshly slicked length and pumps.

When he sucks at the tip, though, it's too much, even with the faintly uncomfortable edge of teeth and Dru-Zod's frown of concentration and- Jor-El is grabbing at Dru-Zod's shoulder, trying to warn him, but it's too late, he's spilling, thick over Dru-Zod's mouth and hands and chin and by the Oversoul, it's filthy and demeaning and unsanitary but the mere look of Dru-Zod crouched and frozen and soiled between his thighs makes his freshly spent prick twitch again weakly. 

"Sorry, I'm sorry," Jor-El's wobbly as he sits up and drags Dru-Zod over, licking up the mess: the taste is bitter but it's worth the moan that shakes through Dru-Zod's frame, the restless tension in his hands as he drags Jor-El up to straddle his lap. They get Dru-Zod's breeches off, somehow, then it's messy and awkward for a moment until Jor-El manages to fit himself over Dru-Zod's thighs. It's sticky and wet; Dru-Zod moves his soiled palm to curl over them both, stroking experimentally with his clever fingers, tipping up his chin to kiss Jor-El roughly when he's finished licking Dru-Zod clean.

" _Jor_ ," Dru-Zod whispers, his voice raw as though _he_ was the one who had just been shattered, and Jor-El gasps as he feels his own flesh start to swell again, rocked against Dru-Zod's arousal. It doesn't take long for him to thicken further, and further yet until they've got something like a rhythm going, rubbing against each other in the circle of pressure made by Dru-Zod's hand, and they kiss, drunk on each other and on life; they kiss until they're spent and breathless, until words are meaningless and there's nothing more to the world than each other. 

This, perhaps, is what pure heresy is, and he welcomes it.

They're young, and it's a while more before they're both tired enough to want sleep over exploring each other's skin. The bed's large enough that they've found a dry spot, though Dru-Zod grumbles when they're curled together, still sticky. Jor-El can't quite muster the energy to head to washing facilities, though, and he's happy to lie close, to listen to Dru-Zod's pulse.

The world's not yet perfect - there'll be worse to come soon, Jor-El knows: societies don't change easily. But there's nothing as immutable as this, as precious; nothing quite as perfect, and he could ask for no better bulwark. He presses his fingers over Dru-Zod's ribs, skating his hand down his flank, and Dru-Zod catches his wrist, bringing up his hand to fumble absent kisses over his fingertips, whispering something fractured as Jor-El shifts up to replace his fingers with his mouth. He knows the words, in any case; he heard them this morning - he's heard them before, nearly a cycle ago, and he hears them quiet and unsaid each time Dru-Zod reaches for him. 

"This world and the next," he whispers in response, and brushes his lips over each of Dru-Zod's shuttered eyes, feels the shaky touch of Dru-Zod's breath against him as he curls back down. The future is closed to him, and they'll make their mistakes, they'll have their quarrels, they'll stumble, but it'll be worth the journey, as much as it's been worth the wait and the pain to get this far. Tomorrow, and always, this world and the next, time will join them together under the sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for reading! This is probably one of the smallest micro pairings I've written for to date... XD;; Thanks for trying the fic!

**Author's Note:**

> If you would like to discuss ficbunnies etc with me, I'm on twitter @manic_intent :)


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